Toto Eats The World

Kellogg's Disney Moana Cereal

2016-11-29T03:23:00.001-08:00

Hey there, avid readers! I've not been posting all that much. Apologies for that. That's because I caught sight of you through your laptop's camera in your pants and socks and it made me want to abstain from the internet for eight months.

Also, something derogatory towards yer maw.

But back to the task at hand - you're here for a review, and boy, do I have a review for you! You'll twist, you'll turn, you'll contort in ways you thought impossible without some kind of serpentine gene therapy - and all because you were eager to hear what a sociopathic Scot thought about some breakfast cereal.

Christ, your life must be rubbish.

This episode, we take a look at Kellogg's most recent stab at their monopolised market with the licensed Kellogg's Disney Moana Cereal. I haven't seen the film yet, but based solely on the cereal itself, it's a big bag of benign, ecru shite.

I can glean from the marketing material that "Moana" is based on a Polynesian lassie who enlists the help of Dwayne Johnson (you'll know him better as Turok, who is a dinosaur hunter) when her community comes under threat by a natural disaster. The links between this and the breakfast food market are obviously tenuous, but Kelloggs, as always, finds a way.

Kelloggs is, as ever, on point with the packaging. At £2.00 for an introductory price, the packet alone drew me in for a purchase, though the usual RRP of £2.89 in Asda would be a tough sell, even with phenomenal production values on the cardboard cuboid full of grainy goods. The print quality is top-notch and definitely stands out when placed beside Asda's Own Brand Bland Bran.

Misandrists will be infuriated to hear that though you can switch the box over to reveal two different covers depending on whether you prefer our female protagonist and her male demi-god companion - on his side of the box, he's seized her diminutive pig friend, clearly an allegory for men seizing dominance and livelihood from the gentler, progesterone-charged, uterus-toting gender.

Moana Cereal is described as "Honey-flavoured Multigrain Cereal" - but as any Kellogg's indulgent will attest, this is the cover-all veil for "Kellogg's generic bland breakfast". In the past few years, Kellogg's has utilised a pretty done-to-death schematic for their licensed cereals - make a whole ton of multigrain hoops and stars, and just fill differently-themed boxes with them. I mean, cereal stars make sense if you're selling Star Wars cereal, but significantly less when you're selling Frozen cereal.

I mean, what do the stars signify? Particularly austere snowflakes?

However, in this instance, we actually have uniquely-shaped cereal pieces, which had me grasping at my chest with hyperbolic faux-shock. The cereal pieces are small spiral off-white discs which (I'm assuming) are edible portrayals of the "o" in "Moana". That's vexing as hell to me, because I have no idea why that's what you'd want to push with the property. You've got a big fuckoff demi-god with a fish-hook, and even a comic relief cockerel in there. And how about a cute little pig? The marketing materials are chocka with potential cool cereal shapes, but nah - we'll make a cereal based on a random letter in the title of the film.

Maybe for Finding Dory cereal we can have multigrain lower-case "G" pieces?

But nothing made me more irate than when I actually tasted this cereal. Now, breakfast cereal isn't where you go for nuanced flavour. Even if you're opting for one of the cereals that's more focused on helping you do a big fibrous bum sausage than being dessert for breakfast, they still tend to be heavily sweetened and flavourful. Simultaneously, I'm capable of discerning fairly intricate flavours (being a pompous prick, and all), and I'm not unfamiliar with gentler flavourings.

But simply put, this cereal is the blandest f***ing breakfast gruel shaped like a mid-title letter I have ever tasted.

I have absolutely no idea how they've managed it, but with the texture of slightly less squeaky polystyrene packing peanuts, the texture is only atomically better than the taste, which is best described as paper, if it was processed close to a synthetic honey flavouring factory with the windows left open. The barest hint of honey doesn't even appear until the lingering aftertaste - which I can liken to the fizzy bicarbonate sensation left after eating artificial sweeteners, only without the sweetness itself.

A 30g portion of Kellogg's Disney Moana Cereal is only 114 calories without milk - but you'd be better off eating a kilo of coarse sand for the same energy intake. I simply can't recommend this cereal to anyone, even those of you looking to placate their wee bairn who's been gantin' for the latest Disney stuff. Put it this way, after the kid tries it and realises it's like eating corrugated cardboard, you're going to be the one having to finish off the box for them.

That said, I have to give Kellogg's a bit of kudos for finding a brand new way to recycle their packaging - I simply wish it wasn't by making an insipid, asinine cereal with the pulpy amalgam.

When it comes to Moana cereal, I'm an unsatisfied Moaner, f'real.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 0/5 (with a 0.5 rating if you're using it as loft insulation this Christmas).

Nostalgic Lunchbox Treat Post: McVitie's Trio and Kellogg's Salted Caramel Squares

2016-05-26T14:25:00.001-07:00

I live most of my life reminiscing about times past, sulking into my adult-sized cup of tea as it rapidly dilutes with my cascading tears. Sometimes I think about some of the treats I used to get in my He-Man lunchbox and I'm whisked back to my school lunch hall, where everything was served up in bizarre oblong traybakes and children got punched in the neck for shiny Pogs.

One of my favourite biscuits was Jacob's Trio bar. You'll remember the advert had the lyrics "Tri-o, Tri-i-i-o, I want a Trio, and I want one now!" all to the tune of the Banana Boat Song. The little animated kid in the advert was a bit of a self-centred witch, and she was always inexplicably hanging around with middle-aged hippies. This didn't sully my opinion of the biscuit. If anything, it endeared me to it; it convinced me that even with the worst upbringing, the most petulant little bastard could make friends with strange, unwashed gentlemen.

When I heard that United Biscuits would be reviving the brand, I was obviously excited. My rose-tinted goggles had created quite the notch on the bridge of my nose, of course, but all things considered I still felt inordinate optimism was the way forward.

Costing £1.29 for a pack of six, I felt that the packaging was a bit... plain. Fair enough, the original logo/font/colour scheme was in place, so I can't really throw my outrage bloomers in the air about that one, but there was definitely one oddity - the word "toffee" haphazardly stamped onto the packet. There weren't ever any other flavours of Trio, so I wasn't sure why this was necessary. If anything it evoked a bit of trepidation and doubt in my soul. A bit like if McDonald's discontinued the Big Mac, then re-released it with "Beef!" plastered on the side - you'd start to think, "well of course it's beef. I mean, what is it if it isn't? Wait, what if it wasn't before? What if that means it's different now and I don't like it? Did I used to eat rat burgers?!" Nobody needs that kind of doubt in their life. Nobody needs that Windows 10 "All your files are right where you left 'em mate, nobody had a rummage or anythin' mate" message popping up, and nobody needs to be told their toffee biscuit is definitely toffee.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the individual biscuits were paper and foil, which any nostalgic lunchbox enthusiast will tell you is the acme in biscuit packaging. I remember when Nestle attempted to change all of their Kit Kats to plastic only, and people went absolutely tits about it, as well they should have. How am I supposed to run my thumbnail down a piece of fucking polyethylene? I'll tell you how. By sellotaping a lancet to my thumb and having it skite across the table, causing big bastard lacerations to my other hand. That's not a kind of world I want to be a part of any longer.

The label reads, "Milk chocolate with an irresistible toffee flavoured cream and a crunchy biscuit", which only made me question whether or not the original Trio had toffee or... toffee "cream". "Cream" is such a disturbing word when you're as fundamentally demented as I am.

Though, I had to say, the attention to nostalgic detail was definitely on point. Three pieces, three components, three emotions - excitement, anticipation and constipation. The last is simply because my bowels are like an old clothes wringer operated by an aged leper.

Upon biting into the bar, this Trio definitely did give me a burst of nostalgic joy. Jacob's biscuits definitely didn't do the best chocolate, and I suppose it's faint praise that the waxy quality of the chocolate here mimicked that quite effectively. But somehow, the soft, melting chocolate and the granular nature of the... erm... toffee "cream"... really did the job. This is a fudge-like, chocolate-like sweet experience that can't be quantified by the usual measures, but I assure you that's a positive thing. It's like a guilty pleasure; rubbing your loins with olive oil whilst a goat watches, in biscuit bar form.

I have to say, though the quality of the chocolate nor the filling is particularly good, in unison they work together effectively to evoke a strong nostalgic link that I'm sure you guys can't appreciate unless you had a personal link to Trios to begin with. It definitely makes the new Trio pretty good, even if the chocolate isn't so creamy, or the toffee isn't stretchy caramel-like. I think the best way to describe it is like the biscuit equivalent of visiting your gran and having her prepare you a stew - in any other scenario, the stew would be filling and functional. But having been apart from it for so long, that stew is wonderfully evocative.

The new Trio may or may not be great on its own merits, but via the legacy it lays down, I'm a disgusting fanboy that dresses up as Trios in his spare time, unable to hear criticisms of Trios without writing a post about it on the internet.

Next up, we have Kellogg's Salted Caramel Squares.

I'm nearly 32. That makes me significantly old. I'm as old as some trees, you can't deny that. But more pertinently, Rice Krispie Squares were never part of my personal diet until I was at least in my twenties, and thusly, I don't have quite as much of an attachment to them. So when Kellogg's proudly proclaimed a new flavour of Square, I shrugged and did the "look upwards, shrug" default stance I so often adopt.

I picked a multipack up of four from Tesco for a quid. And soon after I started to open it up, I remembered a fury I hadn't recalled for a while. Yes, Rice Krispie Squares are a fucking foxtrot of fuckery to open up, being so absurdly sticky, and I sat there for a while just trying to open it.

For Christ's sake. It's been three minutes and I've only peeled this much away. It's like an expensive striptease, if my particular fetish was big brown pustules forming an oblong. Let's be honest, we've all imagined our significant other as a bizarre ochre cuboid comprised of polyps.

You know what? I wholly respect context.

Salted Caramel is a trendy ingredient these days, and when paired with dark chocolate or particularly potent chillis like nagas. But a Rice Krispie treat is by no means a gourmet indulgence. No, not at all. This tasted like I'd poured a bowl of Kellogg's Ricicles out and some bastard had replaced the sugar for salt. Yep, this tastes like a bowl of salty Ricicles, and no matter how I approached it, this is how it tasted. I tried thinking "hey, what if Hotel Chocolat came out with a Salted Caramel Roasted Rice treat with... nope, it just felt like "Shite, I poured brine on my Rice Krispies."

I know I tend to be hyperbolic, but I just want to hammer this home - my dog Medli has been known to happily chow down on rocket and kale. I handed her a Kellogg's Salted Caramel Square and she licked it twice, dog-frowned, and stared at me. She had absolutely no interest in this foul little briquette of nonsense, and clearly, neither did I. As I said, context is everything, and salted caramel doesn't work with breakfast cereal - not a jot.

Nostalgia is a powerful force. Perhaps it influences our opinions to a point that taints reality, and sometimes it simply reinforces the truth. Kellogg's Salted Caramel Squares may taste like the Dead Sea in my cereal, but to me, Trio is a nostalgic taste sensation, a sepia-toned well delving down into the tastes of my past. I suppose everything is subjective, but I want a Trio and I want one now.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING:

MCVITIES TRIO: 4/5

KELLOGGS SALTED CARAMEL SQUARES: 0.5/5

Fox's Star Wars Empire Bars

2016-01-13T05:17:00.003-08:00

"Where're the reviews, Tommy?", cry all you whinging whinebags. Can a man not decide to have a break? Can you not all just taste things for yourselves without validation from me? Well, apparently not. You need the warm embrace of my tepid mixture of scathing sarcasm and trite numerical rating system to get your fix, and so here we are, with my first review after months of hiatusizing!

Did you guys see the new Star Wars, "The Force Awakens"? I did! I loved the bit where all the spoilers occurred, which we won't discuss - but my, what fantastic things those spoilers were, right? Disney is onto a gold mine with Star Wars, after not just producing a pretty damned awesome Star Wars film... but by slapping Kylo Ren's mug on pretty much everything, from bottled water to bags of oranges (seriously). After Disney acquired the rights to Star Wars, they went a bit bonkers-tits by using the property to hawk cereal and whatnot, but now we're in marketing overdrive!

One such sector ripe for StarWarsisation is the biscuit aisle, and no combination makes my ears prick up like a cartoon Doberman more than "Star Wars" and "promotional price" - which is why I nabbed a multipack of eight "Empire Bars" from Tesco for a singular tatty pound coin.

Not to be confused with the UK bakery staple "Empire Biscuit" (which is a shortbread sandwich with jam, icing and a jelly tot greasily thumbed into the top), these are described as "biscuit bars packed with chocolate space rocks and raisins", I was confused as to why they half-arsed the naming pattern, seemingly abandoning the stellar pretence halfway through. Did they lose confidence in the space theme? "Chocolate space rocks and... raisins"? Why not "asteroid raisins", or "neutron raisins" or something? "Pulsaraisins"? It's like having a Halloween chocolate biscuit and saying it's "tombstones of shortcake filled with raspberry bat blood, covered in... chocolate, or something." Lazy, Fox's Biscuits. It's fucking lazy. Step it up. Christ.

"Wanna buy some drugs, kids?" whisper Vader and Stormy, glaring menacingly from within the packaging.

I did like that each of the little biscuits (which, by the way, are 54 midichlorians... er, calories apiece) are all individually-wrapped, so your own little womp-rats can have them in their lunchboxes without fear of cross-contamination with... sarlaac juices, or corned beef sandwiches or something (see, Fox? I can half-arse my analogies and metaphors too).

What I did not like, however, is the stunningly erroneous use of Darth Maul in this setup. Darth Maul is in no way related to the Empire, seemingly dying by the hands of Obi-Wan Kenobi prior to the fall of the Galactic Republic (though being salvaged and revived later on in the Clone Wars series as a cyborg, of course). This Zabrak antagonist doesn't belong here whatsoever, and I hope someone at Fox's Biscuits realises this absolutely monolithic gaffe, which I'm sure has had shoppers nationwide bursting their poor sides at.

But does it TASTE Star-Warsy? Well, no. Does it taste stellar in any way? Well, no. But does it taste good?

It's not bad. That's pretty much the summary - it's really not bad at all.

First up, I have to draw attention to the texture of the Empire Biscuits, which was the first thing I noticed after biting in - these guys are dry as all hell, so snap and crumble with a touch of violence. To reference the British Biscuit Fracture Chart (the BBFC, of course) - it's definitely "biscotti-tier" in the bite-and-crumble category, which initially put me off, but after a dunk into my tea it took on a very pleasing state. The taste is nice and malty, quite oaty, and when you get some raisin or chocolate chunks it really does remind me of a chocolate Hob Nob - especially after the aforementioned dunking sesh. The only problem, of course, is that it's just completely inferior to that McVities biscuit in every way - despite the dryness, even the longevity of dunk can't compete with my nob. Hob Nob. McVities' Hob Nob.

That's not to say it's bad in any particular category, but it just doesn't excel in any category either. Eating it on its own would be a bit plain, but the experience is heightened with a cuppa. An Artoo Tea-Brew.

"Luke... help me get... this mask off."

"Dad, your face is fucked."

I'd definitely say that these Empire Bars are yet another cash-in product, though nowhere near as half-arsed as the Star Wars cereal Kellogg's has available (which are just those generic stars they must have an underground bunker full of, desperate to fob off any way they can). This isn't a... multi-Leia'd product whatsoever, but does the job - the Force didn't Awaken - it was merely half-baken. Baked.

*sigh*, I bit off more than I could chew...3P0.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 2.5/5, OR 3/5 WITH AN ARTOO TEA BREW

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL: Soreen Scream Lunchbox Loaves

2015-11-02T02:56:00.000-08:00

Halloween is that holiday that furtive adults dread and exhibitionists crave. The thought of dressing up like a sexy Frankenstein's monster really does destroy my character throughout the better part of the year, and that's because I know I'll:

a)Disappoint my father

and

b)Never pull off the monster thong out of context.

But when it's Halloween, you can do whatever the hell you want. You can teach your children to completely disregard your teachings to them and take confectionery from strange, lonely men on the outskirts of town, dressed up as foam anthropomorphic penises. Whatever the hell you want.

One thing you probably don't consider doing on Halloween is... eating a bit of fruit cake. I mean, eating fruit cake is more like the sort of thing you do out of obligation, meeting a great aunt for tea, forcing down a slab of date-ridden stodge and hearing about how many boils were just lanced from great uncle Arthur's anus. It's never truly an exciting nor enjoyable experience - most of you have likely psychologically associated fruit cake with anguish.

But I've always found that to be something of a shame. Soreen in general has always been one of my favourite go-to snacks, because it's filling, and sweet, and rich. I don't care if great aunt Imelda loves a slice of Soreen on a coffee social - it's damned tasty and demands more of your time.

So when Soreen decides to produce a set of Halloween-themed fruit cakes, I'll be the first to champion them. So here I am, championing fruit cake. Christ almighty, I really don't have much to do with my time, do I?

First up, we have the Toffee Apple Scream Lunchbox Loaves. Just check it out - they're green, because apples are green. I was personally pretty peeved that my Halloween-themed treat went out of date ten days before Halloween, but then again, I'm constantly disheartened by being forced to eat cakes all the time. But, someone has to bear the brunt of baked wrath, and I shall cling to my diabetes shield with aplomb.

You know when you have something that's "apple-flavoured", and it tastes remotely of washing-up liquid? An artificial, soapy taste that makes you wonder if most flavour alchemists only ever tasted apple accompanied by a mouthful of Toilet Duck? Well, it is miraculously and astoundingly absent here. This is an apple-based treat that tastes like apple. Not only that, but the massive chunks of toffee and rich, malty sponge make this a very sweet, incredibly tasty treat. For 94 calories per bar, this is far more satisfying than I had expected, and is now in contention for my favourite type of Soreen.

Next, we have the Chocolate and Blood Orange Soreen Scream Lunchbox Loaves. I especially love the packaging for this one - Dracula is looking pseudo-facetious and positively fucking conniving with his segment of satsuma. He's sitting thinking, "I shall steal ALL of your vitamin C away from you, so you'll be forced to live your lives like me!" whilst flailing around with his crazy rickets. Honestly, this is the bandiest-looking citric fruit-toting vampire I've ever seen, stuck knee-deep in a quagmire of chocolate. That's some Guillermo del Toro shit right there.

This one didn't disappoint either, with sizeable, rich chocolate chunks (which weren't quite milk chocolate, and not quite dark chocolate either... somewhere in between. Mark Chocolate?) and some strong orange essence that had a bitter kick you'd find in the zest, this was just as much of a treat as the Toffee Apple variety. In this instance, the chocolate and orange pairing was so strong, however, that it overpowered the malty Soreen and it became an altogether different sweetie indeed. Y'know, it has something to do with the stodgy, squishy middle and firm exterior (fnarr) that Soreen touts as its trademark consistency, but with the chocolate and orange flavouring it made this one taste like a chocolate orange brownie. For only 104 calories.

What a nightmare, eh?

Halloween will have come and gone by the time this review goes out, meaning you will be incredibly pressed for time to find these in stores before the inevitable deluge of Christmas-themed items steamroll over them (because as everyone knows, November 2nd is when you need to start purchasing sundry nonsense for your spoiled little human spawn, because god forbid they don't get one of everything in the Argos catalogue). But I sincerely suggest you seek these out to enjoy - both are exceptional treats that I'm going to be sad to be unable to purchase until this time next year.

And yet, they make shit like Hershey's Baby Vomit "Chocolate" all year round. I think you'll agree, that's the TRUE nightmare. Well, that, and listening to Aunty Abigail's rant about how BHS didn't have any ivory drapes to go with gold curtain-ties the next time you want a slab of regular Soreen.

What I'm saying is, buy more goddamned Soreen.*

TOTO'S TASTY RATING:

SOREEN SCREAM TOFFEE APPLE LUNCHBOX LOAVES: 5/5

SOREEN SCREAM CHOCOLATE AND BLOOD ORANGE LUNCHBOX LOAVES: 4.5/5

*This review has not been sponsored. I just fucking love fruit loaf.

Marks and Spencer Milk, Dark & White Chocolate Coated Biscuit Balls

2015-09-24T09:54:00.001-07:00

Let's get this out of the way forthwith and up-front. Sometimes everyone craves balls. It's not a shameful thing, by any stretch of the imagination; they're fun to cup, twiddle and roll around, sometimes pop in your mouth to let their flavours progress on your palate, occasionally, when you're feeling a bit more violent... they're great fun to kick. Really hard.

So, I was craving some balls the other day, and found myself in Marks and Spencer (affectionately referred to as "Mampersands" by my fiancee and I - don't worry, she knows about my ball thing). Marks and Spencer is definitely the most deservedly upmarket foodetarium I frequent, because the cost is almost always reflected in the quality of the eatables purchased, so I don't mind spending a wee bit extra in there (as opposed to yer Waitrose pish, where ye pay Marks and Sparks prices for Nisa grub). I spotted these Milk, Dark & White Chocolate Biscuit Balls sold in a multipack of five bags for £2.49, and after giggling for about, oh, twenty minutes, I purchased them. Then giggled a wee bit more.

Now, before we go any further, I just want to say... though Marks and Spencer is undoubtedly top-tier for food quality, the naming here is simply abysmal. It's like they got an infant to describe, without any metaphor, catch or sparkle, what he or she was seeing. "Milk, Dark and White Chocolate Coated Biscuit Balls" is the most benign, descriptive name of a product I've ever seen. I'm not saying call them "Marks and Spencer Choco-Spectrum Delici-orbs" or anything, I'm just saying that perhaps a bit of imagination wouldn't go amiss. I imagine the Marks and Spencer Naming Director to go home, turn on his light-based moving picture panel, sit down to his favourite meal of Garlic Butter Breaded Chicken Pocket and enjoy an evening watching "Over-critical Judging Panel Scrutinise Hopeful Vocalists".

I was surprised by how long the packets were. Not content with the product being balls, Marks and Spencer want me to make a joke about an unnecessarily long ball-bag, now?

Grow the fuck up, Mampersands.

For reference, each 100-calorie bag is exactly one puppy head long.

Marks and Spencer have these little snack packs filed under the "Guilt-Free Snacking" range, which I've always found to be an odd thing to harbour guilt and remorse for. I've never broken up in a cold sweat with my post-traumatic stress disorder recalling that bag of Pickled Onion Space Raiders I ate just after I murdered some old man, or something. But that said, I'm lucky to have never had nightmares fuelled by the haunting grimaces any of the geriatrics I've killed in general, so perhaps I'm just fortuitous.

As I sat there, cupping three balls in the palm of my hand (as I do every normal weekday evening), I noticed a very creamy aroma from the balls (heh) in general. Not much in the way of cocoa smell, but certainly a sweet and milky one - and I could definitely smell shortcake.

As I popped each ball into my mouth to taste and enjoy the consistency of(as I do every normal weekday evening), I noted each flavour independently. Firstly, the milk chocolate - it was similar in taste to Nestle's chocolate (think, Animal bars), but perhaps a little bit sugarier; the addition of the buttery shortcake really made this a tasty morsel indeed. Next, the white chocolate. This one was almost exactly the same in taste as Cadbury's white buttons, after the exterior sheen had melted away (and by that, I mean, you know the glossy finish that coats the likes of chocolate raisins? The veneer that tastes of nothing whatsoever? Aye, these have that, too). For me, it drowned out the taste of the shortcake a little bit. Next up, the dark chocolate, and this was undoubtedly my favourite. This isn't a kick-you-in-the-teeth strength of plain chocolate here, but more cocoa-heavy than, say,Cadbury Bourneville. The sweet buttery biscuit interior worked best here because of the contrast in taste, though all three were definitely good on their own.

And as I'm a fuckin' nutter, I tried them combined - and this was undoubtedly the way to go. Getting each of the different types of chocolate with a hearty dose of shortcake made this taste something akin to marble cake and shortbread, though with a super-sweet hit to punctuate each mouthful.

As I polished up my entire ballbag, I felt wholly satisfied. Seriously, these definitely sate a sugar/chocolate/biscuit craving for a reasonable caloric outlay, and though they can't be called exceptional by any means, they definitely do the job, and do it well. And I think that's rather apt, given the completely functional name they have - no flair, just business.

BALLS: THEY DO THE JOB.

And they definitely lend themselves pretty well to some spectacular innuendos, which is always handy for me. But for now, you'll have to excuse me, I'm getting a ball craving again. No, no, I don't want more chocolate. I just mean, it's time for my hardcore sado-masochistic daily homosexual orgy.

Heh, Balls.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 3.5/5

Weetabix Protein Crunch

2015-08-18T13:31:00.001-07:00

Cereal. It's often reserved for breaking the fast, starting the day, giving you energy to take on another work shift.

What I don't often think about is how breakfast cereal can give me sick gains. How it can charge me up for an epic set of benching. Well, apparently the people at Weetabix think that their cereal is a bit too boring, benign and focused on giving geriatrics bowel movements - they've added a brand-new Weetabix Protein Crunch cereal to their line of popular morning munchables.

Discovering this in Asda for a whopping £2.79, a price which is rad swole as my arms are going to be after a single bowl of this, I purchased it with gusto. I think it's worth noting that my favourite cereal is actually Weetabix Crunchy Bran, so if it was going to be remotely like that, I'd be pounding my chest with aplomb.

Of course, what I wasn't expecting was Wheat Crunchies. You know, those wee crisps you get in corner shops that haven't renovated since about 1989? And they only seem to stock the Smoky Bacon flavour? Well, that's exactly what these look like. Hollow tubes. Now, I'm not going to make a joke about gym-bunnies being "hollow-headed tubes", of course, because that would be uncouth and wouldn't do the marketing department any great favours. But I can't help but be a tad vexed over the decision to make these hollow cylinders. I mean, check out what myglobin appears like:

It's hardly cylindrical. In fact, it looks more like some kind of Smurf perm-job. But I suppose a cereal like that would be a little unwieldy, unappealing and even more difficult to explain. Whatever. I don't care what it looks like. I'm only here for the raw protein power to swell my burstin' guns.

I poured out the recommended 30g portion size. I didn't want do OD on the unbelievable protein power of Weetabix Protein Crunch. It looked paltry, but I know that Weetabix just wanted to lead me into a false sense of security. They're probably frightened that if I pour too much I'll intimidate all of those other peons in the gym too fearful to look me in the octo-abs. It only contained 115 calories, but pah. I didn't need calories. PAH! That's not how nutrition works! All you need is protein, to give you a god-bod that Zeus would freak out at the sight of.

Poseidon would see me surfin' and be like, "time to test this brute!", sending a tidal wave my way. But I'd punch it in the hydrogoolies, and send it right back to the bearded basturt. He'd be all like, "whoa, shit, no typhoon for this bruiser!" and skulk away into the Marianas Trench to have a tea party with all the girliest fish (see: Rainbow Parrotfish, least manly fish in the sea), Zeus et al tutting in the background.

I tasted the cereal. I wasn't instantly convinced. This isn't the same as other chocolate-flavoured cereals; it's definitely more of a wheaty-tasting cereal first, and a chocolatey one second. Actually... like Weetabix with chocolate protein powder on top! And the texture offered by the bizarre cylinder pieces was actually pretty addictive, like a cross between Monster Munch and some shortbread, a combination I'm sure nobody would bemoan, unless they were some shitty lifter that couldn't even break 200 on a bench press.

I started to thoroughly enjoy Weetabix Protein Crunch. So much so, that I ate the entire bowl and felt full through to lunch time, and also had mad gains. And I mean, mad gains. My sick 'ceps were bursting out of my tanktop and I wanted to high-five everyone in a five metre radius. Forget that the cereal is actually pretty tasty and filling - it made me pumped.

Three days later, I awoke covered in Mens Health magazine fragments and baby oil. My experience had been euphoric. My gains had been... well, mad. Nobody else was as truly ripped as I, and it was all thanks to Weetabix Protein Crunch. Sure, the cereal is tasty if you enjoy that trademark Weetabix malty-wheaty taste and a unique texture unlike most cereals on the market. But let's face it, nobody cares about that.

Mad gains are all I care about. Mad gains. And look at me now. One bowl in, look at me now. My pecs will wreck. My traps, BRRAP-BRRAP! My abs, like slabs.

Come at me bro.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 4.5/5

Cadbury Dairy Milk Marvellous Creations Rocky Mallow Road

2015-07-31T05:56:00.001-07:00

According to the internet (a phrase you should never start a sentence with in order to maintain credibility, but whatever), "rocky road" as a dessert flavour started when a Californian laddie named Dreyer decided he would use his wife's sewing scissors to cut up nuts and marshmallows to add to ice cream. Being the late 1920s, he referred to this as "rocky road" due to it being the great depression and all, and that even in the "rocky road ahead", you could still have a fun time and a bit of a treat.

Not much is said about how pissed off his wife was that this dude was cutting up marshmallows with sewing scissors, getting sticky shit all over her fine embroidery and whatnot, but considering the popularity of rocky road as a flavour today, we can assume she didn't hold a permanent grudge.

But seriously though, is it that hard to just go get a knife? I mean, he's cutting up walnuts for christ's sake. Surely it'd be infinitely more difficult to cut a nut with a pair of scissors, no? And think of all the pink marshmallow slime all over the fresh white cotton. It's making me squirm, and Dreyer should be churning in his grave for his sins. Hah, churning.

Fast-forward to modern day and rocky road is pretty much just synonymous with "cookery ground zero" - usually what lazy people "cook" when they want to make "cakes" (aside: it's not "cake". It's "I melted a big bar of Galaxy into a pan with some marshmallow and shit, then put it in the fridge". Is it delicious? Well, of course it is. It's melted chocolate and marshmallows. But it's not fucking cake, you pleb). The combination of ingredients for a "true" rocky road might differ from country to country (Aussies use coconut, Yankees use nuts, we use cherries) but to be honest, it's pretty much just an excuse to get rid of crap in the cupboards.

So, Cadbury have emptied their cupboards into this new bar, which replaces the utterly grotesque Cadbury Marvellous Creations Banana Caramel Crisp (or, as it should've been named, "adolescent liquid amoxycillin with a chocolatey aftertaste of dissolving paracetamol"). You can pick this up for about 65p RRP, or for the bloated price of 73p in Co-op, which for some reason charges "train station W H Smith" price for pretty much everything. Each bar contains 240 calories, and it's adorned in the usual glossy Marvellous Creations branding. Just holding this bar, I feel like I'm grasping a rectangular prism of distilled carnival.

..."grasping a rectangular prism of distilled carnival"? What the fuck does that even mean?!

It's split into five irregular segments. Some look like woodgrain, and some look like citrus segments, but there's this lazy bastard in the middle who's just completely untextured. Well, I suppose he's unique. The other guys all turned up with someone else wearing the same thing, and he's decided to play it nice and simple. Actually, no, I take it back. Nice job, middle segment. You're the real deal, mate.

The underside definitely looks rocky. If this was an actual road, you'd definitely experience some coccyx trauma traversing it, and perhaps a little whiplash. It reminded me of some of the better roads in Dundee, if I'm honest. From here you can see where the strawberry jellies, marshmallows and honeycomb pieces were; the marshmallows were definitely the chunkiest of the chunks.

Now, let me add a disclaimer - I have an inordinately sweet tooth (I almost wrote "sweet toosh", there. This would also be true) and this tastes very sweet. Though the marshmallows and honeycomb pieces offer a good textural contrast, they add pretty much only extra diabetaste to the story - extra sugar. The jellies actually surprised me, though; they tasted like those huge gummy strawbs you get, only much juicier, and really gave an extra tartness to help cut through the shwathes of shooger. And as always, Cadbury's Dairy Milk recipe is totally on point - if you can handle a much sweeter version of it.

To be honest, it was erring on the side of just a little too sweet overall, but it was damned tasty besides that. All the ingredients worked well together, and if perhaps this was Bourneville chocolate, I think it would have gotten the sweetness balance down. As it is, however, I can only recommend it to people with an above-decent tolerance to the white stuff (that's sugar, not cocaine, semen or the freshly-plucked down of an owl chick). Overall, it's not Great-Depressiontastic, but the road was rocky, indeed. Or something. Think of your own tenuous quips.

Well, I'm going to have to cut this review short here. Not with any form of traditional punctuation, but rather, with some sewing scissors. Does that seem inappropriate? Like it would be far easier just to use regular punctuation? Well, no. I'm using sewing scissors.

DO YOU SEE HOW FUCKING RIDICULOUS YOU LOOK, WILLIAM DREYER? THIS IS HOW RIDICULOUS YOU LOOK.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 3.5/5

The Laughing Cow Mini Cravings

2015-06-30T14:16:00.001-07:00

Cows don't laugh. I've seen them, and they're miserable creatures. Always staring into my soul, judging me for all my past misgivings. Jesus, I wish cows laughed. That way I'd feel less bad when one catches me masturbating into assorted gourds.

But of course, that's not why I purchased this product - to question the viability or credibility of some sort of chuckling bovine, as absurd as the concept might be - no, I purchased it to eat. I saw the cow's ridiculous grinning face from the shelves of Asda, tittering like a moron above the price sticker. £1.69? Aye, nae wonder you're laughing. Price is a fucking joke, pal.

The Laughing Cow Mini Cravings have been doing the rounds at the moment, and I'm slightly slow to the party. Most food blogs reviewed this months ago, but as I've been busy scowling and scratching my body in order of decreasing hairiness, I've not been able to thus far. Thankfully, I decided to stop adoring my hirsute chest for long enough to write a review.

The Laughing Cow Mini Cravings are essentially tiny cubes of cheese-flavoured... er... product designed to satisfy a craving for cheese for a mere 14 calories per portion. Now, I'm not a cheese person. That is to say, I'm neither an adult man composed partially or entirely of cheese, nor am I a man who is particularly partial to cheese. So you might think, "Hey, Toto, why are you qualified to give a valid opinion on this product? Surely a cheese lover should be reviewing this, rather than someone who takes no overt pleasure in cheese-eatage?", to which, I would retort, "Oh, okay, where the fuck did you get your PHD in elitist dairy policing? Get off your high horse, you ugly human anemone" and get on with the damned review.

The Mini Cravings come in two different types of multipack; one featuring Cheddar, Blue Cheese and Smoked Cheese varieties, and one with Four Cheese, Garlic and Herb and Ham and Herb. As stated before, you can nab a pack for £1.69, and thus far, they're limited to ASDA and Sainsburys, so if you go to the Carphone Warehouse, you'll be sorely disappointed. The cheese snack selection there is simply atrocious.

The little cubes are fairly cute, despite being plastered with that infuriating cow sniggering because she saw me get my penis caught in the George Foreman grill that one time I thought horizontal grill lines would make it look longer.

I get why these exist; cheese is not a healthy snack. It's pretty fatty and if you've ever seen a recommended portion size of cheese (30g is about three to four dice-sized cubes of cheese and has about 140-150 calories) you'd be forgiven for thinking the Laughing Cow Mini Cravings are poppycock. And I know a lot of stuff is poppycock these days. Balderdash. Codswallop.

But Laughing Cow cheese spread is quite a mild cheese snack - the texture is far softer than a cheese-lover might be used to, so if you're some kind of stilton junkie, will it still do the job?

All of the cubes come packaged in a neat little foil wrapper. I like the colour coordination, and the geometric imagery on the foil. It's pretty cute, and though it's fairly dinky, they've really gone to a lot of effort to make each little morsel worthwhile.

You'll feel like you're a contestant on the bloody Krypton Factor opening these sods, though, because they unfurl in a way that's definitely more forgiving to people with long pernickety fingernails, with tiny tabs and tags. Once I'd made Jesus blush with swearwords I didn't know I'd learned, I grew to learn that each of the varieties of Mini Cravings cubes looked identical - like the one pictured above. Here's what I thought of the individual flavours. Hold on to your seats for some pretentious, smarmy palate-stroking.

CHEDDAR: If "default" was a flavour, this would be it. This is definitely the benchmark, the most standard-tasting cube, of all of them. It tasted buttery and, unbelievably, rather cheesy, but in a "cheese spread" kind of way. It didn't taste much like cheddar, which is a far more sharp, sour flavour, but it did the job. Worth applying to every one of the Mini Cravings cubes, but this was buttery and soft, with a light touch of oiliness and creaminess to it.

CRAVING SATISFACTIONOMETER: NICE, BUT BUT BENIGN. LIKE A BEIGE LABRADOR.

SMOKED CHEESE: This one tasted more like edam; a light cheese, but with a hit of pepper and smoke. There's no doubting this one is "smoked", though certainly artificially - but it's a stronger flavour that's perhaps an acquired taste.

CRAVING SATISFACTIONOMETER: PLEASANT, BUT DIVISIVE, LIKE A HEDGE MADE FROM CUDDLES.

BLUE CHEESE: I was worried that this one would taste like old man scrotum, a taste of pungent, unwashed socks. I'm no fan of cheese at the best of times, but people that enjoy the really, really strong stuff give me the heave-ho. What's wrong with you people? You're like those people that pay to have their balls crushed by a large woman named Obliterique. But no, quite the opposite - this one turned out to be my favourite! You see, because these cheese cubes are so mild, the most pungent-tasting of the bunch turned out to be savoury and sour at just the right level to meet in the middle between "real" and "fake" cheese.

CRAVING SATISFACTIONOMETER: BLUE BALLS UNBLUED.

THREE CHEESE: This one, oddly, tasted far more like cheddar than the cheddar one. Sharper, and with a more rounded flavour. I don't know what the three cheeses were this was trying to emulate, but I bet one of them was sodding cheddar.

CRAVING SATISFACTIONOMETER: A BEDDAR CHEDDAR.

HAM AND CHEESE: This one actually tasted like cooked ham and cheese slice sandwiches, a delicacy I used to partake in as a child. It pretty much resembled the "Cheddar" variety with a smoked ham taste to it, and I enjoyed it. Then again, I did eat my own earwax on occasion,so take that any way you please.

CRAVING SATISFACTIONOMETER: NOSTALGIASTIC.

GARLIC AND HERB: This was the only one that was visually any different, with some wee speckled bits within it (shown above). It was reasonably garlicky and tasted a lot of chives and oregano. I'd definitely place this one in the higher echelons of Mini Craving, a pantheon long established and revered by the gods of yore. I just liked it because I like garlic, and repelling girls.

CRAVING SATISFACTIONOMETER: TASTY, WITH A SIDE OF FOREVER ALONE

So, overall, I didn't find a single Mini Craving I disliked. Sure, there were some that I wasn't too fussed on - but being such wee morsels, it wasn't like I was enduring a long slog of anguish or anything. It's not like someone plonked down a mystery closh and underneath I found an entire rack of ankylosaurus to review - it was a single bite, or enough to spread on a cracker or two. And therein I think I find the strength of these to a cheese non-believer - they're just enough to dip the toes in and get a little taste, without burning out.

At fourteen calories a pop, these are so negligible to your day that they're perfect for their purpose - a little taster of something you fancy. Of course, being plastered with judgmental cows doesn't help me any - I know they saw me dressed in my clam bikini upon the banks luring sailors to their doom. I know they saw me eat that last Rocky bar when they knew my girlfriend wanted it. I know they watched me fart into the marmalade jar and then sell it to an elderly couple as "Elite Preserve". But this particular cow knows what it is doing - it's providing us with a neat wee product that I wholeheartedly endorse.

Just a pity I'm not a cheese person. I'll never say "yes, please!" when the Subway sandwich builder asks if I want plastic cheese slices on top of chicken teryaki. But I do know when a cow isn't judging me. And Laughing Cow, I am laughing with you too. You're a fine cow, Laughing Cow. But you do scare the shit out of me.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 4.5/5

The Original Naanster

2015-04-14T07:03:00.001-07:00

As you'll already likely know, I am not quick to respond to bribes. When marketing companies reach out to me to rate and review their products, I'm always happy to oblige - after all, free is the best price - but I'll never pad out a review with grovelling, foot-kissing praise like a pandering pander-bear just to get free stuff. I'm always honest, and sometimes that can result in companies never talking to me again like petulant children when the products don't a glowing review - see my Burton Wagon Wheels Revival review if you want an example.

So you have to admire the bravery of a beautiful and utterly flawless, sweet and kind marketing saint/goddess named Francesca for sending me these exquisite, delicious, potentially-flawless product-of-the-year candidates - these samples of The Original Naanster.

Okay, so all jestering aside, this is definitely something a little different for me to review. It's not entirely within my usual product-purchasing spectrum, so I approached these with equal excitement and trepidation.

Only, when I was informed I'd get sent "a few samples", I didn't consider for one moment that I was going to receive a gigantic bastartin' sarcophagus filled with microwaveable snack breads. Seriously, they had to deliver it in a transit vaanster. Hoh.

Naansters are "light, fluffy naan breads filled with pilau rice, mango chutney, and a selection of spicy fillings", according to the blurb on the packaging. From the description alone, I'm a faanster. Hoh. There were three meaty varieties and one veggie option - Beef Madras, Chicken Tikka, Balti Chicken and Vegetable Tikka.

The packaging was all very bold and unique; only the two chicken varieties looked slightly homogeneous in composition and packaging. I particularly liked the flowing font used in the branding. The tagline exclaimed "The Fastest Indian!" which I'm certain was the name of a pretty shit Anthony Hopkins film about breaking land-speed records. I'm pretty sure they missed a trick by having a tie-in promotion featuring Naanthony Hopkins. Hoh.

First up, I tried the Beef Madras version.

Taking only ninety seconds to buzz up in the microwave, this one had a nice meaty scent that was heavy on the cumin and masala. Biting in, I burnt the crap out of the roof of my mouth. They really should have mentioned that just-cooked food may be hot on the packaging. Simply unacceptable.

The flavours were pretty decent, but I have to be honest - the texture was simply odd. The "naan" bread wasn't particularly... er, naanish, it was more soft and forgiving than regular naan bread - more like a thick wrap. The saddening thing was that the beef, rice and sauce all merged together into one soft mass that wasn't repulsive in any way, but really made me feel like chewing was kind of... optional.

The beef itself was reasonably tasty, but in such small pieces strewn throughout that it simply became part of the "filling mass". Like wading through a beige quagmire to rescue an orphaned ginger middle-child stuck within, it was simply an endeavour not worth the effort.

Good flavours, nondescript texture. Aww, maan.

I'm going to be honest once more with these next two - and I have a reasonably decent palate - there was not too much to discern between the Balti Chicken and Chicken Tikka. That's not to say that these were at all bad - in fact, these were a notable step up from the Beef Madras.

It's kinda like being told you can have either a chocolate-chip cookie, or... a triple chocolate-chip brownie cookie, though. The same deal, just that one has far more of the good stuff, more oomph, than the other. The Chicken Tikka version just had more flavour, more chunks of chicken, and more spice. The Balti Chicken was a bit more akin to the Beef Madras' paste-like consistency, but with chunks of chicken to break it up; the Chicken Tikka had more substance, more bite, and was definitely superior.

Last up, the Vegetable Tikka. I feared this would be the worst of all to suffer from the stodgepodge, but it was actually the opposite - this was, believe it or not, my favourite of the bunch. The vegetables were crunchy and sweet, and mingling with the chutney, tikka and rice, they offered the best contrast of flavours out of the Naanster claan. Of course, it wasn't perfect in the slightest - that naan was still a bit too soft and flufferous, and there was still an element of the filling being almost like... well, paste - but this just edged out the Chicken Tikka for textural diversity.

But of course, we all know, if you eat food without any animal souls in it, it's not a proper dinner.

There was something I took away from my Naanster experience; that the flavours weren't always perfect, but they were pretty decent. I could easily slam Naansters as being stodgy, stinky paste-wallets, yet more throwaway products in the chilled snack aisle, but in all honesty... they had some decent elements to take away. I've very rarely found a microwaveable snack that has quite so much flavour, and if you're after an Indian hit for under 500 calories, you'd be hard-pressed to find one elsewhere... but the texture issues really bring the product down for me.

Worth noting is that some of the samples were distributed to colleagues in my office and the responses were all glowingly positive - however it's worth noting that this is the same office in which a worker ate a tupperware container labelled "mystery meat" in the kitchen fridge. Take that any way you'd like.

I thought Naansters were reasonable. In short, they're decent, but by no means faantastic.

See, I hardly fuckin' swore and I'm not always cruel. Keep sending me free stuff, now.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING:

BEEF MADRAS: 2/5

BALTI CHICKEN: 2/5

CHICKEN TIKKA: 2.5/5

VEGETABLE TIKKA: 3/5

Load o' Limited Editions: Nestle Toffee Crisp Honeycomb, Nestle Kit Kat Toffee Treat, Galaxy Salted Caramel

2015-03-31T11:19:00.001-07:00

I don't know what it is about March, but it's when most chocolate overlords feel super-generous to us grotesque consumer underlings suckling at their mighty choco-teats.

And for some utterly disturbing reason, I imagined that scenario in my head with said overlord as an obese, hirsute-nippled man. Clearly, something to add to the already-bloated index of topics to discuss with my psychiatrist.

So, today's Toto Eats the World entry is something of a roundup episode; I'll be doing nipply... er, nippy little reviews for a whole bunch of brand new products you might find on the chocolate shelves. So, let's get started with Nestle Toffee Crisp Honeycomb!

Toffee Crisps are one of those chocolates I sort into the "no, buy yer fuckin' ain wan" category, because they're something you personally purchase, only for your friends to ask idly if they still make Toffee Crisps, if they're still any good, and wonder why they don't purchase them for themselves any longer, because they love Toffee Crisps. Well, yes, they still basturtin' make Toffee Crisps, because I'm currently eating one, and yes, it's great. Buy yer ain fuckin' wan.

Frequency of purchase aside, I rate Toffee Crisps in the upper echelons of cereal-based chocolate bars. They're satisfying, sweet and have a variety of textures, and don't leave you feeling like you've just eaten a U-boat. So when Christine (aka, the ravishing Lizzie Duke) mentioned there was a honeycomb variant, I said a few ecstatic, surprised swear words. "Whoauck!", I said - a portmanteau of "whoa!" and "fuck!". Then, rushing to the shop, I left with an elated "thanksturt!" - an abbreviated "Thanks, ya basturt".

The Toffee Crisp Honeycomb cost me 65p, and as you can see from my finger, it's much smaller than a normal Toffee Crisp. I was going to use a different part of my anatomy as a frame of reference, but unfortunately it was inserted into a honeydew melon at the time. A Toffee Crisp Honeycomb has a rather respectable 198 calories, so the smaller bar size is reflected in the nutritional content - unsurprising, because of Earth science an' that.

If you're from Scotland, you'll call chocolate bars "wee sweeties", and this sums the Toffee Crisp Honeycomb up succinctly. It's wee, and boy, is it sweet. In addition to the Nestle milk chocolate, soft caramel and Rice Krispies (so-orry - "No-name Toasted Rice Cereal pieces", Chrissakes) there are little nuggets of honeycomb strewn throughout, and they're as erratic as a visit to imgur.com. But this means that, with each bite, you get the usual sweet, malty chocolate taste of Toffee Crisp - but with the added roulette wheel of sugar-bomb. And though I'm no fan of inconsistent experiences, somehow here it works an absolute treat - having a random super-sweet hit really makes this even more satisfying than a regular Toffee Crisp, despite the smaller size.

More satisfying, despite the smaller size. Hm. Deja vu.

Overall, though, it's one awesome little bar, and it's great to see a lesser-known brand get some love. Toffee Crisps are great, but in this scenario, they've actually made them tastier.

LIMITED EDITION LOVE-O-METER SCORE: EPILEPTIC CUPID WITH A MACHINE GUN - 4.5/5

Next up, we have Galaxy Salted Caramel. This one cost me 89p, because I bought it from W.H. Smith, and as we all know, they're a bunch of robbing filthy bastards. Go on, repeat it after me, children. Filthy robbin' fuckin' bastards. Good job, kids. All except you, Tarquin - you can stay after class. Yes, Tarquin, I know you're a mormon, but if I tell you to swear, you fuckin' swear.

As we all know, Galaxy Caramels are one of the best chocolate bars in existence. Utilising the creamier-than-a-gang-bang-in-a-dairy recipe of Galaxy's chocolate and mixing it with a perfectly sweet, sticky caramel, Mars have created something worth inducing diabetes for. And yet, they feel it can be improved upon! Those rogues. I'm more than happy enough to see if they can improve on perfection.

The packaging mentions it's part of the "Caramel Collection", too, so let's see if there's a follow-up!

Mmm, chocolate cleavage.

That's the only thing you can describe it as when you open up a Galaxy Caramel. The two chocolate bars just... bosoming it up. Each chocolate bar is 116 calories, so that's 232 if you're a normal person intending to eat both. Incidentally, that's exactly the same as a regular Galaxy Caramel, so I'm going to assume the entire recipe is exactly the same, but with... salt.

One of the few things I find utterly infuriating about Galaxy Caramel in general is that the sectioning is half-arsed. Seriously, if you're going to make them look like they've got three sections per bar, then at least bloody section them off properly. When you try to break a chunk off, it splinters and spews caramel and chocolate everywhere like a Lindt bunny at a rave, even with the most delicate touch.

So, is this godly? Is it ten times better than the original? Well, there's good news and bad news. The good news is - it's as good as Galaxy Caramel DEFAULT EDITION (tm). The bad thing is - it's because it suffers from the one thing salted caramel products always do - not enough salt. It's the salt equivalent of all those crappy products touting "SUPER SPICY!" and "RIP YER ANUS OFF WITH HEAT!" - and then it tastes a bit like watered-down Tabasco. If you're going to make a song and dance about being super-salty (and trust me, I always state that disclaimer before I let random tramps lick me), then you'd better have a salty kick. Sadly, this merely had a salty gentle poke. It's still crazily delicious, but does absolutely nothing truly new, and certainly not enough to get bonus points.

Ten points if you laughed at "Salty gentle poke."

LIMITED EDITION LOVE-O-METER SCORE: APHRODITE SHAMEFULLY GETTING FREE DRINKS WITH CLEAVAGE - 4/5

Finally, we have Nestle Kit Kat Toffee Treat.

They've all been pretty oddball products, for definite, but this one was the only truly unclear one from the wrapper. It looked as though someone had attempted a rebus, a vague picture puzzle, with this effort. "Purchase this bar of beige!", the marketing screeched. I mean, that was enough for me to purchase it, but I doubt everyone'd be so easily swayed by Mystery Mastication Beige Bar.

And sure enough, opening the package up did very little to clarify the situation. This cream-tan beastie was neither white chocolate nor toffee in smell. When I think of toffee, I instantly think of a confectionery coloured golden-amber, and you need to eat it with a hammer and the jaws of a pitbull. Of course, I like to eat other foods with a hammer (my girlfriend will soon learn to love the benefits of eating mashed potato with a gavel), but that's the defining appearance of toffee. So when I see this off-colour Kit Kat with absolutely no golden elixir in sight, I grow concerned... and hungry.

S'fuckin' Caramac.

That's instantly what I thought. It's a Caramac Kit Kat! It's the malty, biscuity taste of the Kit Kat wafers, but with the condensed milk super-sweetness of Caramac. There's absolutely no toffee here. The Caramac taste was also quite light, too, not giving quite the same creamy hit nor the fruity palate-kicker - it's mostly just sugar-flavoured. This is a Kit Kat of needless deception, however - Nestle also make Caramac, so why on earth shy away from it? Just to rile me up? Well, mission bloody successful, Nestle, I'm livid. You're just teasing me with wasted potential.

Legitimately though - this Kit Kat is a decent addition to the Kit Kat Kamp, but it's suffering a bit of an identity c...Krisis. The bar is 233 calories for a four-finger bar, but to be honest, the sweetness got too much for me, and I threw in the towel halfway through. I don't know why I had a towel at the time.

Oh, aye, I was mopping up all that blood. Hah! Girl Scouts.

LIMITED EDITION LOVE-O-METER SCORE: EROS SEDUCING YOUR GREAT AUNT AT A DRUNKEN KNEES-UP - 2/5

Overall, these limited editions were positive experiences. I'm always up for a new product that's genuinely innovative or different - in this case, it's the Nestle Toffee Crisp Honeycomb that gets my gold star, however. Tarquin gets a kick up the arse for being shit and not swearing. And we, the suckling chocolate-loving masses, from our giant chocoverlords get the... er... hairy man-nipples, apparently.

It's a good thing. I promise.

Hula Hoops Puft

2015-03-03T04:27:00.001-08:00

I've had a broken rib, then a month later, a spinal prolapse. That's my excuse, so stop asking where I've been, ya impatient bunch of petulant manchildren. Anyone'd think I ran an NHS kidney dialysis machine with the urgency of your "come back, satiate us!" email requests! Chill it, okay, I've written a review now, so you can stop pinging my email address like you're selling ultraviagra. I've got plenty of ultraviagra, thank you very much.

So, this product appeared on my feed, and being physically unable to procure it due to reasons I just mentioned (and yes, will harp on about at every avenue), I whipped out my laptop and did my shopping on the line. It's surprising how easy it is to buy your weekly shopping online, and even more surprising how much shite you put into your virtual trolley when you're just clicking a button. Seriously, four tins of creamed rice for a quid?! Nice, I'll have eight! Man, I wish I actually liked creamed rice.

After spending an inordinate amount of money due to flamboyant offers I didn't need, like hairspray (I'm bald), Whiskas (I don't have a cat) and toilet rolls (I just use my hand), I nabbed a six-pack of Hula Hoops Puft from the site for an introductory offer of £1 (RRP £1.79).

It's clear to me that KP have attempted to get in on the healthier crisp market here by launching the "Puft" line, because these are notably lighter and healthier than regular Hula Hoops (less than half the calories, in fact, at only 72 calories per individual multipack bag). The slogan on the back of the multipack bag, "Let yourself float away with Puft" made me instantly assume that these were pumped full of helium, but that's an absolutely ridiculous assumption. Everyone knows that helium is in short supply these days, so I changed my assumption to these being crisps filled with hydrogen.

The packaging definitely conveys the "lightness" marketing aspect well, with clouds and lovely fluffy fonts used all over the place. Worth noting, however, is that the packet itself isn't that small, despite the light 15G size - I've included a picture of a bag beside a toy pirate shark for size referencing. I just figured he'd be the easiest point of reference for a wide audience.

Upon opening the bag, I was met with this rather splendid sight. Each Hula Hoop is much bigger than their original counterparts - perhaps even double the size. They had a smell oddly enough, of the whiff of oven chips prior to cooking them, with a very salty edge. This is more than likely because the flavour I opted to purchase was salt flavour. The flavour of salt.

As an aside, actually, the three flavours of Puft to choose from were the standard Ready Salted, Salt and Vinegar, and Cheese. But why has cheese (and onion) risen to become one of the standards? The rest of them are condiments! Are the crisp flavour formulating engineers all living in student flats or something, just grabbing whatever they can find? "Oh, aye, salt. We've got that. Whit else have we got? Vinegar, aye, shove that in. Naw, naw, no' mustard. Nor the baking soda. Whit else have we got? Oh, aye, Marie-ann's cheese, let's just use that and put an IOU in the fridge."

Upon digging into the bag, I was pleasantly surprised at the texture of these; somewhere between Pop Chips and Monster Munch. With just enough crunch to be satisfying, but with a super-porous inside that had a gentle fizzle and dissolve on the tongue, these had the taste of baked potatoes - salty baked potatoes - with the gentlest sweet hint to them. I was so pleasantly enamoured by these that I forgot that they looked like deep fried anuses. And the best thing about them was that they lasted for a reasonable while, which is down to each piece being big enough for a satisfying munch, which I can't say for most lighter crisp products.

In the same vein, however, after I'd finished them, it felt as though I'd eaten nothing at all - these aren't a filling snack whatsoever. But then again, you're not going to be eating light crisps for yer dinner, are ye? These are great for what they are - satisfying a crisp craving without guzzling down a share-size bag of Sensations.

More to the point, the larger size of these meant I could once again indulge my inner child by placing a Hula Hoop on each finger and munching them off in succession, which I'll admit looked vaguely like a cannibalistic act by a man with elephantiasis - nowhere near as sweet as a naive tot engaging in the act of Hula Hoop Finger Munchage(tm). I'll also add that, when you're a wee laddie, offering an adult a Hula Hoop off your finger is a twee act of affection, but doing the same thing as a grown man gets you hit by a tartan handbag.

Overall, these were great. I'd say they lose a point for being unable to satiate hunger (and also, for shattering all over the place when attempting to ram other appendages into them) but on all other counts, KP have done an awesome job.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have eight cans of soon-to-expire creamed rice to consume, and eight cans of hairspray to fire wildly into the ozone.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 4/5

Nestle Yorkie Peanut

2014-12-29T12:38:00.001-08:00

Aye, aye, I know, I haven't done a review in a long time. You don't need to remind me, you patronising bastard.

Somewhere between hit-dips ("hit-dips" referring to lessening internet traffic here, not some colloquial speak for drugs/sex acts or something) and personal laziness have left me wondering if I should even bother.

Pulling my pale, futon-like corpse out of the crumpled tins of expended Special Brew, I arose, though. Like some Scottish, hairy, stinking phoenix - you know, the type of phoenix that scratches its arse and complains that it's just one of the shite family reunion episodes of Jeremy Kyle this morning. The best kind of phoenix.

Nah, I thought I'd curtail the hiatus (oooh, "curtail the hiatus"! Been living in England too long, Tommy, aye?) and come back with a relatively uninteresting review, to reinforce that you must have a shittier life than me to have been amiss without such tepid review fodder. This fodder I refer to? Nestle's Yorkie Peanut.

Now, that's hardly fair - I partly said that because I wanted to attempt a bit of a hyperbolic, smarmy stance (OoOOoh! "Hyperbolic, smarmy stance!" Check out Tarquin, here, laddies!) and partially because it's just a bit of a... well, slightly less boring version of an already rather boring chocolate bar. Let's face it - Yorkies aren't a flamboyant Broadway show of a chocolate bar. The description of a regular Yorkie is "it's chocolate, eat it, ya fucking pansy" or something, I don't know - I'm paraphrasing here. But it's just chocolate. Nestle chocolate, which is decent, but hardly fanfare-material. This version simply adds peanuts to the show, and I found myself a little lukewarm about that prospect. Each bar contains 248 calories, which is interestingly the exact same amount of calories as if you eat 248 x 1/248 scale versions of this particular chocolate bar!

The packaging also informs me that it's "Man Fuel, for Man Stuff." I don't quite know what "man stuff" entails. I mean, I know what man bits are, and that we love to scratch low-hanging parts of ourselves... but that rarely expends many calories. Not unless you're really going hell-for-leather, in which case you're going to end up raw tomorrow morning. And I refuse to believe Nestle devised a chocolate bar solely to allow guys to scratch their crotchpurses red-raw. That's a fucking sadistic marketing campaign right there.

In the end, I assumed plumbing, lumberjacking, and looking at breasts were the activities the bar intended to fuel. All things I frequently do, wielding an unwieldy trauma-inducing tool.

Opening the bar, it looked very similar to other Yorkies. That is to say, like a chocolate bar. This chocolate bar smelled and looked very much like chocolate, which was rather unsurprising. Yorkie bars have an almost proud chauvinistic quality I can't really fathom. I mean, aye, they're chunky, but they're entirely predictable and not at all exciting. Are we implying that this, the most manly bar of chocolate, is a rather overweight, slightly boring and unsurprising affair? I'm certain this doesn't bode well for our gender. But we do have nuts, so kudos for finally getting that one right, Nestle.

On the underside, you can see those nuts bursting out, desperate to escape from their chocolatey external layer, pressing against the surface. A bit like when I wear XS boxer shorts.

But do you know something? For my perpetual, relentless abasing and beratement (Oooh, Tommy, "relentless abasing and beratement", I think you've dropped your organic quinoa and raw carob there), this was actually... pretty damned good.

In fact, the thing I'd ragged on the most - the boring simplicity of it - is what I enjoyed most about it in the end. The milky sweet Nestle chocolate does the job, the salty, almost woody, oily peanuts do their job, and you get the perfect balance of almost savoury-sweet fusion I've not enjoyed since Treets (note: if you don't remember Treets, you're younger than I am, and I fuckin' hate ye for it).

I won't be telling strangers on the street about Nestle's Yorkie Peanut, it's not that delicious (though I might just do that to get a reaction or two, just for kicks) but the simplistic nature of it is hard to find endearing to the palate (Oooh, "simplistic nature? Endearing to the palate", Tommy, aye? "Endearing to the palate"? That's what your maw said when I put ma..." --edited by Tommy-- but it most certainly is a basic combo that for some reason, we don't get enough of in the UK. Sure, we have Snickers, and we have Picnic, but those bars are like some autistic fucker got a hold of an ingredients list and just went full rapid-fire on the checklist. Yorkie Peanut is so pleasantly simple that it's totally difficult to dislike, and I actually really enjoyed.

I still wouldn't recommend it if you have peanut allergies however, unless you want to give me a drunken laugh, as I pretend you're Arnie in that scene from Total Recall.

Overall, however, Yorkie Peanut is a tour de force that belies it's initial simplicity, a symphony of basicality that indoctrinates and re-establishes the neutral point in the human sense of taste.

... oh, come on, I'm trying tae be pompous here, is nobody going to rip the piss out of me?

It's chocolate wae peanuts in it, and it tastes guid, just eat the fucker, aye?

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 3.5/5

Tesco Turkey and Stuffing Weirdoughs

2014-12-03T14:48:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I get a commission. Sometimes, I receive a request. And sometimes, the corner of my eye completely fucks with me, and makes me disgruntled to a degree that isn't even nuisance-tier any longer. This is one of those latter times, and the corner of my eye is going absolutely mental right now.

You see, some absolute fucking nutcase at Tesco thought that sugar doughrings were completely tedious. That fried halos of cake weren't quite enough for the British public, that we'd grown tired of sweet, fried things coated in utterly absurd deluges of caster sugar. Instead, these Tesco reps thought, "Hey, it's nearly Christmas, let's make a completely irrelevant treat taste like Christmas dinner!" - like making that feeling when you go down a dip in a car taste like pork and sage. Look, I love that feeling. You know that one, where the car is bobbing up and down the road, and it dips reeeeeally sharply, and that feels like your arse is going inside your throat? Aye, that one. Just imagine that being flavoured with turkey. It's as disturbing as it sounds.

"What do you get when you cross a doughnut with a crisp?", the bag asks us. "A shitting abomination"?, I want to respond, but that's not very open-minded of me. One of the most prevalent anomalies is that the bag contained only eight of the alleged ten Weirdoughs. Already, I was dubious. I dislike being duped. Already, I'm being asked to review some kind of fucking absurd savoury Christmas dinner doughnut - the last thing I need is to be told the quantity is a lie, too. This makes me consider the possibility that this entire review is an elaborate joke.

I rarely want things to be Turkey and Stuffing flavour, normally. Like, if I have a bit of chewing gum, or if I'm eating a piece of birthday cake. Only on rare, truly bizarre occasions do I think to myself, "This would ROCK if there was a bit of kilted sausage and dry poultry flavour in there!" - and to be honest, the smell here did very little to convince me that regular doughnuts were totally inferior. Doughnuts are perfectly fine smelling like fried dough and sugar. Yet clearly, the marketing department in one of the most prevalent, important supermarket chains in the western world feels that making cakes taste like birds is one of those rare occasions that can't be passed up.

I'm not here to pass judgement.

Actually, heck, I AM here to pass judgement. Aye, they're all fucking insane. The lot of them. They're thinking things none of us want, because they're all a bunch of fucking toolsheds.

Alas, however, I am not a close-minded chap. I can accept it if it's fantastic. Even if it's trying to do something nobody else has done that perpetuates the human mind in ways the universe can appreciate in one hundred thousand years, then it's worth doing. I feel as though I'm polarising you all by stating this, but a ring of fried dough tasting like poultry and sage is not a revolution, it's what a stoned person does when their particular strand of weed harks intensely, then tapers off with them slavering in the corner like, "hey, what if they made chicken cake?" - this right here, is a novelty.

In all honesty, me being a total basturt aside - these doughnuts are tough as fuck. I mean, dense and unyielding. Like a mother-in-law's stare, they induce dread in the confident; I literally have no idea if these particular Weirdoughs were just made a week ago or if their texture should be akin to a Komodo dragon's hide on dry season. Seriously, guys - it made the review so much easier for me. As I bit into one, it reminded me of the texture of foam insulation - that tough, molar-to-and-fro texture that made me question if I was reviewing food or pet furniture.

Legitimately, though, all shit-on-heading aside, the flavour was that of Roast Chicken crisps. That, and a shitload of salt, and sage. Like, Christmas basically means "fuck your arteries, just take whatever seasoning you want and have at least eight hundred percent of it on whatever you're eating." It's overwhelming; the saltiness of these Weirdoughs made them tough to taste, and the odd "this feels stale" toughness of them made them difficult to divide and distribute to others.

That's not to say that these are bad - no, not at all! I am legitimately excited by the thought of a Christmas product that's trying to be something rather unique. But like Santa Claus crotchless panties or Baby Jesus fishing rods, some things just simply seem way too weird to be a real thing beyond you and I.

If you're being paid to perpetuate the fucking nightmarish thought of bread dough infused with Christmas poultry and have no opinion, you are sadly dead inside, and need to be culled. I will happily do this for you.

Seriously, though, these cost a pound, and you don't even get ten in a bag. I got eight. Eight for a quid. Literally eight doses of confusion and heartache to be distributed at will.

M'on tae fuck, even with my stupit-arse on, I'm better at world domination than this...

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 2/5

Jamie Oliver Empire Chicken Salad

2014-11-05T07:38:00.001-08:00

Jamie Oliver, let's face it, can be a bit of a prick.

Now, he does some great work, has the best of intentions, but Jesus Christ, is the man smug, deluded, and drowning in pretentiousness. Not to mention his tongue looks like someone's forced a gammon steak into the mouth of an Action Man.

But all can be forgiven if the product belies the means, and encountering the Jamie Oliver range in Boots, I thought I'd try the lisping bastard's food out to quell my grumblin' tumble.

The Jamie Oliver Empire Chicken Salad is an Indian-inspired platter with plenty of spiced chicken, raitha, Bombay potatoes and shredded coriander carrots with 219 calories a pack, and will set you back a fairly Scot-infuriating £3.95. If it didn't look so suitably tasty, I would have smashed the place up in my outrage screaming Oliver-related slurs whilst the Newcastle Boots staff try to pepper-spray me (see: most nights out in Newcastle).

First up, the shredded carrot salad. I popped some of the pot of raitha on too, and went to work - there were all manner of ingredients in here, and I got the sweet crunch of carrot, the subtle hum of cumin and fragrant coriander, peppery watercress and crunchy, pungent red onions. For something so simplistic in it's composition it was pretty damned delicious. The raitha was just the right combination of creamy, tangy and sour, and worked well.

Fucking Jamie Oliver. I was desperate as hell to hate this so far, and punch him in his smug Fifteen-Minute-Meals face. I mean, Jamie, who are you trying to kid, with your "Fifteen-Minute" meals?! "Just take out your pre-roasted side of salmon from your chiller...", you say, like I just pre-roast sides of salmon just for the basturtin' fun of it? I don't "pre-roast" any-fucking-thing. Partially because I don't have an oven, sure, but that's just a technicality, Jamie, ya prick!

Next, the Bombay Potatoes. These were also pretty damned good.

Now, I might be playing the pedant here (just, you know, for a change), but I'm not the hugest fan of cold potatoes in general, but that aside, these only had a single small flaw - the consistency. Some of them were a little too smooshy-smush for me - I like mashed tatties, but only when they're SUPPOSED to be mashed. These are like half-pureed-Smash and half chew-a-palooza. But for all my gripes, the spices were so well-rounded that I forgot the oddities in the consistency. The peppery, cumin-heavy hum and curry/paprika notes made me wolf down the lot like I'd just developed a severe starch deficiency that needed to be replenished within the next ten seconds.

My last hope to find a reason to justify kicking Jamie Oliver in his stupid gonads with a steel-capped boot was the main event - the chicken. Up until this point I was really enjoying my lunch, and had this dirty, askew feeling in my stomach like I'd developed a crush on Joffrey Baratheon or something. No matter how much it felt good to me, I felt conflicted like everything I'd ever known was being questioned.

The chicken was fucking great. Fucking fuck. With a similar seasoning to the potatoes, but with the added benefit of being flavourful, juicy breast meat chicken, it was just... (sigh) excellent.

I spent the next half an hour looking into a mirror whilst listening to No Surprises by Radiohead. Who even was I, any longer? Was I some guy that could actually admire Jamie Oliver, one hundred percent, despite wanting to punch him simultaneously?

This product was utterly excellent, and for my minor gripes, it truly was a fantastic, healthy lunch. With a fantastically-spiced, diverse gamut of tastes and textures, the platter did almost everything right.

And then I thought a bit about passion. Maybe it's just that Jamie Oliver has such intense passion, that sometimes he speaks and acts like an utter arse? Maybe it's that he's honed his craft so far that his pomposity has overflown into his persona? Whatever it is, he makes a mean Empire Chicken Salad.

His tongue still makes him look like a terrier eating a slice of luncheon meat, though.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 5/5

Mars Bounty

2014-10-23T14:30:00.001-07:00

Scotland is not a tropical place. In fact, the most exotic we get is finding a tin of peaches in a neighbour's wheelie bin in the dead of night, crawling home from the pub, sodden in your own piss.

And on that most appetising visualisation, I present to you this - the latest review - Mars' own tropical treat - Bounty.

Bounty isn't a new thing. No, it's actually an age-old chocolate bar that has always been on everybody's "oh, I should buy that again, some time in the future that isn't right now" list, one of those utterly taken-for-granted treats you just assume will be there no matter how much you ignore it in favour of the latest limited edition Kit Kat Chunky. But Bounty sits there, silently weeping. Bounty is always there, that 38-year old bridesmaid, awaiting her Richard Gere. But Bounty's Richard Gere keeps getting hookers instead.

Fuck you, Richard Gere.

So it's safe to say that a Bounty Bar is no surprise to anyone - it's dessicated coconut coated in Mars' milk chocolate, packaged in a wrapper that makes you feel like you're buying like, fifty grams of the Dominican Republic or something. I've never been a fan of the heat, but a lot of Scots might find a respite from the torrent of rain, spit and inability to form a sentence that doesn't contain an obscenity that a tropical treat might bring.

I for one, don't have that issue. Ya fuckin' prick.

Each 60p RRP Bounty comes split into two little bars, which is great if you love sharing. Or, if you're like a normal person, consume both bars together in the dark screaming, "no, ye can buy yer AIN chocolate, ya scroungin' basturt!"

I've always admired this notion - that a bar could be split into two to "save for later". In a culture that can't distinguish "family bags" of Doritos from "grab bags" or "single bags", who is legitimately going to open up the package and think, "oh, nice, they portioned it so I can be responsible. I suppose I DID buy chocolate so I could treat myself, and treats should be rationed, so..." - NO. People buy chocolate because we are WEAK. We need that chocolate NOW.

Each Bounty segment is approximately 139 calories, by the way. This should be relevant to the readers who do the rationing thing, and aren't completely human.

The single bars are pretty cute though. I hesitate to immediately say they look a wee bit like a wee jobby, because that would present them in an unflattering light. In all realistic realisticness, this is actually a really awesome little nugget of choco-goodness. It has that sweet, malty scent of Mars chocolate, but with a powerful whiff of coconut emanating through.

This is where I polarise you all.

Coconut.

People that don't like coconut should feel like fucking retards right now. Why? Because they've sat through this entire review looking for me to convert them somehow. You're such retards. Coconut is a polarising flavour. If you like it, this will be your heaven. If you dislike it, then you're defective. Send off to the manufacturer for a new you. Just, a jiffy bag to the deity of your choice for a new body with a new sense of taste.

Bounty bars are so densely-packed with sweet dessicated coconut that they remind me of my childhood selling tablet and macaroon as a wee Scot-kid - confections that ranged from deadly-sugar-concentrations-in-a-bar to that exact thing, but with coconut flavouring.

Bounty is sweet. Super-sweet. But that fragrant, perfumed taste of coconut blasts through and says hello towards the tail end, and lets you know that it's the star. The chocolate is adequately fitting - the chocolate here is merely a coconut roadie. It's here to make the coconut look pretty awesome. The chocolate is milky, sweet and worthwhile, but we didn't buy the ticket for the chocolate here, people. But the pair work together perfectly.

Bounty is one of those bars that is consistently forgotten - half of you can't stand it, and the other half of you forget it exists. Well, I'm here to remind the latter half of you bawbags that it's cocoNUT, not cocoNAW - give it a chance, when you're sitting looking for your latest fad-chocolate like some absurd recent release of a Marmite Kit Kat or a Double Caramel Cadbury Caramel or some bollocks.

Remember, it's Scotland. You get fuck-all tropicality in your life. Embrace the kiss of paradise. Not the kiss of a Glaswegian forehead.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 5/5

Walkers Wotsits Zombie Fingers

2014-10-15T14:49:00.000-07:00

Turns out, Halloween is coming. You wouldn't fucking know it from the supermarket shelves, of course, because it's the fourth quarter of the year, and apparently that designates the time period "Christmas".

Of course, that said, there are still some pretty cool Halloween-based products coming out that aren't totally derivative, boring and uninspired.

This is not one of them.

That said, Wotsits Zombie Fingers aren't a bag o' baws (they're fingers, not baws, for starters) - it's just that they're really rather... well, they do absolutely nothing new.

Wotsits Zombie Fingers can be purchased from any big supermarket for a mere quid for six bags. That's pretty good going, if you ask me, and considering you're here reading this, I'll assume you're asking anything I gosh-darn want you to ask. They're a Halloween-themed Wotsit that are distinguished by their haunting packaging and their "flamin' hot" flavouring. God knows what "flamin' hot" has to do with Halloween - perhaps, the Salem witch burnings? Maybe... hell? Actually, jesus, that's pretty grim, Walkers.

What the fuck, Walkers. Have some tact, for christ's sake.

The tombstone on the back reads like a terrible Channel 5 horror film written by a college student. "Get the Wotsits Zombie Fingers... before they get you." What, the crisps are going to "get" me? Like, come to me of their own free will? That actually sounds like it would benefit me more than hinder me. Are you implying if I hadn't went out to Morrisons and bought these that they'd have arrived and jumped into my mouth regardless?! Fuck's sake. I could've saved a pound, and I LOVE saving a pound.

This also displays a huge tick with "These only have 93 calories, so you needn't be scared of obesity!" which is definitely contrary to the "terrifying" mindset, too. These Zombie Fingers certainly employ a degree of tact when trying to scare you.

The inner bags are, as we say in Stirling, "totey." They're wee baby bags that make my hands look ginormous. My hands are not ginormous. Alas, in one of my many, many intimate personal moments, it is not like Shrek holding a Peperami, though these bags at least give me that brief illusion.

So, after fifteen minutes of naked crying, I continued with the review.

Inside the bag, I viewed several gaudy orange pieces - absolutely no different from regular Wotsits. They smelled almost uniquely of peppery paprika, however, and I instantly thought, "this is the same flavouring they use on the Monster Munch of the same flavour." And, unsurprisingly, my first munch... confirmed this.

There's nothing wrong with that, fundamentally. It's a slight chilli-hinted paprika flavour - pretty salty, with a resonant potato starch flavouring on the back of the palate. It's good. But Wotsits have that oddly disturbing texture that's just above Skips on the "whoa, whoa, it disappeared... I'm certain I ate something..." scale. Within two seconds of placing a Wotsit upon the tongue, it's completely disappeared into a tiny flavour-atom that confuses you to no end.

I enjoyed the bag, but afterwards, the lingering peppery tang was the only evidence of me having eaten an entire bag of Wotsits Zombie Fingers.

That sounds like I disliked these, but not at all - I genuinely like the "Flamin' Hot" flavouring that both these and the equivalent Monster Munch employ. Though it pisses me off, once again, that a company passes off something as "hot" tastes a little bit like someone shook a single extra pepper shaker on my food, the flavouring is pretty good.

One other thing - these don't look remotely like fingers. They're Wotsits. Don't disillusion yourself, these are legitimately just regular Wotsit-shaped. Trying to pass them off as something else seems fairly desperate. Moreover, why would zombies have "flamin' hot" fingers? What's the connection there?

I feel sorry for the sexually-active zombie girlfriends, if so.

Zombies certainly aren't healthy-looking, for definite, but I'd never connect them with flames, though a flame-fingered undead is at least fairly horrific.

So, in conclusion, these are most definitely a cash-in product. If Walkers were to bring out Quavers as "Flamin' Hot Skin Flakes" or Salt n' Shake as "Powdered Bloodbath and Throttling", it'd be the same thing - a C-grade marketing attempt to make something sound more relevant than it actually is.

Wotsits Zombie Fingers are good. Not great, just good. Predictable stuff. I think here, you'll want to suspend belief and get more enjoyment out of your snacks. Like, for example, imagining there's scale discrepancies between your hand and things your hand might be holding in intimate moments.

THE FINAL PARAGRAPH OF THE REVIEW HAS BEEN RETRACTED DUE TO CHRONIC CRYING AND DISAPPOINTMENT.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 2.5/5

Ferrero Nutella & Go!

2014-09-26T12:42:00.000-07:00

I am not a fan of superfluous punctuation.

There's a fucking ampersand in there, and exclamation point floating about for no reason - the title is a grammatical nightmare outside of marketing, and I should be furious. But the Ferrero Nutella & Go! will no doubt get a pass because, as most females in my life can attest to, Nutella is like some kind of messiah material that's completely immune to criticism.

In fact, I'm going to assume you're going to be, by your mere presence here, completely and utterly biased and ready to kick the shit out of me should I say anything negative about your favourite viscous brown menstrual cramp cure. Well, I'm afraid I may have to have some shit kicked from my pasty, doughy frame here. I'm ready.

Ferrero Nutella & Go! is a snack in the vein of KP Dips - a dual-section container with one containing biscuit sticks, and the other containing a sweet dip. Only, in this particular circumstance, the dip is Nutella. Quell your rampancy, you with all the X-chromosomes.

I purchased this from Tesco Metro (which is like a regular Tesco, but this one wears skinnyfit jeans and SuperDry t-shirts) for 83p. 83p is an almost annoyingly awkward amount to pay for anything, and left me grimacing trying to fathom the reasoning for that particular number. If you're to eat the entire thing it's 248 calories (and, considering it's a Friday night and you've reserved the sofa for Bridget Jones' Diary duvet time, you stereotypical wench, I'm assuming you will).

My tongue resided firmly in my cheek as I intended to do the anti-cool-super-cool thing of ripping on Nutella with every opportunity I get, but it turns out that... well, read on.

The semi-cylindrical tub has a lot of bollocks on it. Not testes, you moron, but spiel about Nutella. The packaging urges you to seek out the breakfast aisle to find Nutella in the purest form, like you weren't already lying in a decadent bath of the stuff already watching the Twilight box set, you abhorrent stereotype.

I was particularly enthused they felt the need to show the weights of the individual components. That really tickles my Jimmy Crinkles, because I'm neurotic and emphatic about absolutely unnecessary things like that. To those equally obsessed about such things - you get 35g of Nutella, and 13g of breadsticks.

The packaging also says the product should not be stored in the fridge. So there you go, Nutella-in-the-fridge-keepers. You're fucking retards, apparently. I didn't say it, Ferrero said it. "People that keep Nutella in the fridge are moron paedophiles." There, you read it on the label (paraphrasing).

Opening the pack up, I was presented by fourteen rather skinny wee breadsticks and an admittedly super-satisfying section of pristine Nutella. Like a blanket of fresh snow, there's a Pandora's box moment of "this is so unbelievably beautiful, but until I stamp in it, I'll never truly be happy" about it.

The overwhelming scent of cocoa and hazelnut poured through. If you've ever had Nutella (and if you haven't, you're either from some distant planet or your parents are those super-vegan sixties-era overprotective wankers that everyone in the world hates) you'll know what to expect here. It smells good. I'm reviewing it, so I'm taking me time here. A normal person, however, would be right in there.

LOOK AT IT.

Depending on your side of the satisfaction fence, this photograph either abrades your skin with a wire mesh or caresses your buttocks with a cotton kiss.

Here's where the controversy comes in. Eating this is a real treat - there's no denying that. But I am personally something of a miser. Shocker, I know. By my nature, I try to ration out the precious Nutella side - but the truth is, there's quite a lot of it, and it assumes you're going to dig deep here. Only, the biscuity breadsticks are absurdly frail - over half of my breadsticks snapped and shattered even whilst I was doing my rationing thing. What resulted was a grotesque gouging session where I'd ram my sweaty sausage-digits in to excavate the fallen biscuit bits, getting utterly filthy in the process. Sure, it tastes great, but I look like a bin-raker doing it.

Nutella has that very decadent, rich taste that starts off chocolatey, then becomes increasingly more nutty and woody as the taste dances on the tongue. That's been established. The breadsticks are definitely okay, but they're probably akin to, say, a Rich Tea biscuit in taste and texture - that's to say, as weak as a fawn and as exciting as a trip to Mothercare as a man. In fact, though they're okay, they do a disservice to the product as a whole. As a Nutella-spade, they're functionally as useful as a hippo in a nightclub - you literally, genuinely wish that any other form of conveyance was available. But as they're what you get, you make it work... just.

Okay, so that might be a gripe that's only really a big deal if you're around people, but you're sitting there in your onesie watching Divergence and wondering when to crack open the Haagen Dazs, aren't you, Rachel?*

If you have no qualms about fragile, fairly Wednesday-tier breadsticks, then this is a fantastically tasty product that packages up Nutella in a way that's daintier to eat than a kilo jar and a basket of Twix fingers. But be warned, people - this gets messy. And depending on how much you're sexually invested in Nutella in general, that's either a massive flaw, or... the greatest thing ever.

*If you're called "Rachel" and you're in that exact situation, I genuinely don't have a hidden camera on (all of) you.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 4/5

American M&Ms: M&Ms Pretzel and M&Ms Birthday Cake

2014-09-16T13:47:00.002-07:00

This week, a curious package was retrieved from the post office. Yes, I was a bit pissed-off that the little red "you weren't in" card was posted through my letterbox whilst I was actually standing in my hallway, but I let it slide - my curiosity was greater than my post office-rage.

And it turned out to be the world's most padded, turbo-reinforced jiffy bag - with two bags of American M&Ms inside, and a cute little handwritted card from one of my American readers. It read,

"Hi there Toto!

I love your blog, it makes me laugh every time I read it! I love reading about British food, I'm going to be visiting London this year so I'll get to try it all myself. I especially want to try Marks and Spencer and Boots food, it looks really good, we don't have anything like that here in North Dakota. I googled it and it actually says Boots is a pharmacy? Do you get your lunch in a pharmacy for real? Lol!

I thought you'd like to try some of the different types of M&Ms we have here so I've included my favorites, I'd love if you'd do a review of them. Thanks a lot!

-Louisa Jennings"

Well, Louisa, even though your spelling of "favourite" made me spit tea in disgust (and I wasn't even drinking tea) - you sent me free confectionery. Free confectionery is greater than disambiguation and language-simplification rage.

In that jiffy bag of wonders I found a bag of M&Ms Pretzel, and a bag of M&Ms Birthday Cake. I will admit, I've tried the former before and enjoyed them quite a bit, so I was pretty happy to give them a written review, but the Birthday Cake flavour? I was quite a bit more apprehensive about those. They definitely seemed like the type of combo only a diabetic paedophile could devise.

So we'll start with the variety that I already know won't make me question the human race quite as much - the M&Ms Pretzel.

For starters, saying "M&Ms Pretzel" just sounds wrong. Nobody calls them that. You say, "Pretzel M&Ms", or "Peanut M&Ms" if you're a real person. Using the "M&Ms Pretzel" naming convention makes it sound like you're Microsoft Sam.

So, after spending the next half-hour making Microsoft Sam say hilarious phrases, I got back to the review.

These come in a vibrant blue bag with an M&M character having some kind of intestinal scan, and appears to have swallowed an entire pretzel whole; he clearly looks quite distressed, like, "how did that get in there? Did I swallow this?! Did... did someone in...insert this into me?!"

The back proudly exclaims the bag has 150 calories (quite reasonable for a treat, actually), and that these are "Crunchy, Salty, Sweet". "Crunchy, Salty, Sweet" sounds a little bit ominous regardless of what you're selling. Maybe I'm just perverse, but hey-ho. Perversion is just rebellion for smartarses.

These sweets are pretty spherical and chunky - nothing like regular M&Ms, but they still have the usual crap that make them M&Ms. The colours, the shells, the Ms. Gotta have the M.

Overall though, they're pretty damned tasty. Like an M&M with a salty biscuit in the centre. Actually, that's exactly what it is - an M&M where someone teleported a salty ladyfinger biscuit into the middle of a regular M&M, and then gloated for a while (because that's a pretty damned impressive feat, if not incredibly productive).

What the hell else do you need? It's a salted rich tea biscuit who has been caught copulating with M&M's daughter, and has sought refuge in M&M's chocolate shed whilst M&M searches for his daughter's defiler. It's a delicious sexual encounter shed. I'm all down with that. I like eating sheds.

Next up was something a tad more concerning. A little more... ominous. "Birthday Cake Flavoured M&Ms" sounds like something that a truly disturbed individual thought up, and the end product certainly doesn't reflect the mind of a person who has ever tasted birthday cake.

A birthday fake.

But look at how confident this fucker is.

He's like, "Have a slice of birthday cake, buddy!" but you're being duped. This sugar-shelled bastard is hiding his real intentions. They've certainly made sure that the sugar-shelled shenanigans are kept to a strict triple-colour setup, and the strictness continues into the flavour.

Have you ever gotten that side piece of the birthday cake that's all icing? That's what this tastes like. The sweets don't taste bad, but they taste like I'm getting diabetes with every single little bite. The chocolate in these ones taste super vanilla-and-sugar-to-death-tastic. They don't taste at all like actual chocolate. They taste like a mouthful of raw icing coated in hardened sugar. It's the epitome of artificial. It's like a fake boob inside a condom. It's as shrouded in metaphorical plastic as a flavour can taste.

It's ridiculously sickly, and even though it's a mere 190 calories for the whole bag, it was way, way too much for me. Even though this was a free gift, fuck it. Your free gift is trying to make my body end. It's trying to make my body question it's existence. Every time something like that happens, I question your intentions, blog-reader. I start to think you might be less than noble in your aims. Why is it that you nutters from America continue to send me stuff that tastes a wee bit like a spoonful of Stevia and ask, "hey, brah, is this cool brah?" - no, it's not. You guys have some truly bizarre products and even as a harsh-tongued Scot, this stuff burns my innards, ya bunch o' bawbags.

To summarise, I'd say thusly - The pretzel variant is super-cool. Tasty, addictive, and the ideal formula for a snack to make you sufficiently fat enough to want more of that specific snack. The Birthday cake variant? That's like someone said, "We have a ton of vanilla sugar, how do we offload it?" and some wide-o said, "M&Ms?" - thankfully, we're not all idiots and we can see through a ruse - we know that vaguely-flavoured vanilla isn't the same as a delicious birthday cake.

I think we can all discern that M&Ms are manipulative pricks. The shelled anthropomorphic bastards know how to mess with our feelings. They know how to make us feel vulnerable. But they forget we're not all tasteless robots (Americans). The Pretzel M&Ms are great. The Birthday Cake M&Ms are artificial and sickly. That's the long-and-short of it.

M&Ms have a trillion separate variants, and there as many hits as there are misses. And this particular package of freebies for me couldn't better exemplify this notion!

I think all I have to state is that, when approaching the M&Ms brand, be prepared for a polarising outcome. Marmite opinion applies.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: M&MS PRETZEL: 4/5

M&MS BIRTHDAY CAKE: 1/5

Supermarket Chilled Soups: A SOUPER SQUARE GO!

2014-08-02T09:49:00.000-07:00

I've been eager to do this segment for a while. People always ask me to try out specific items/brands and compare them, but how on Earth do you compare ice cream to silken tofu? Oddly, one of the most popular of the requests is for me to review soups, as a lot of you have lunch at work, and it's a convenient option. And as I eat a lot greens and soups anyway, I figured I'd kill birds-worth-two-in-a-bush, or whatever the fuck you say.

This is not a scientific comparison. This isn't really much of a comparison at all, it's just me spending an entire working week having soup for my main meal of the day and saying if it tastes like arse or not, and you can choose to buy said soup based on how much or how little you enjoy the taste of arse.

A couple of these varieties were requests, but the other three were chosen at random by my independent panel of me walking about a supermarket, looking really pensive over broths and confusing security guards.

So M'ON THEN! TIME FOR SUPERMARKET CHILLED SOUPS TO HAVE ONE SOUPER SQUARE GO!

DAY ONE: MONDAY
NAME: WAITROSE LOVE LIFE CELERIAC, SPINACH, CREME FRAICHE AND HERB
PURCHASED FROM: WAITROSE
PRICE: £2.49

CALORIES PER POT: 220

This was one of my random selections, and boy, was it ever a one-spoon wonder. You know when you have a taste of something and think, "hey, this is really nice!", but then after each subsequent bite, you dry heave harder and harder? The problem was that this was overwhelmingly creamy-tasting. The creme fraiche was like a bull in a bouncy castle, with all the other kids, Celeriac Charlie, Spinach Simon and Herb...er...Herbert... getting kicked to fuck in a cacophany of cream. Even that pungent iron taste you get from spinach or kale was killed off here for the taste of savoury dessert.

BEST FOR: PEOPLE WHO DON'T DRY HEAVE WHEN EATING KORMA

DAY TWO: TUESDAY
NAME: NEW COVENT GARDEN SOUP CO. SKINNY SOUPER GREEN
PURCHASED FROM: TESCO
PRICE: £1.17 (special offer)

CALORIES PER POT: 216

Now, this one was far, far more promising. For starters, it was nice and thick, but not completely pureed - there were still loads of peas and green beans throughout it. One of the best things about this was that it had a strong basil pesto kick - and pesto's the man. You might even say... pesto's... the besto? You know, if you're crap?

Props for the packaging too, it's super-cute to see a wee carton of soup. I'd probably think less of it after a hard night's boozing, stumbling to the fridge to find the milk for my tea, and pouring a deluge of green, pesto-infused sludge into my brew, but that's happened to me, like, twice, tops. So it's hardly a major issue. Overall, very enjoyable, Covent Garden.

BEST FOR: PEOPLE WHO ARE THE BESTO

DAY THREE: WEDNESDAY
NAME: WAITROSE LOVE LIFE CHICKEN AND MUSHROOM
PURCHASED FROM: WAITROSE
PRICE: £2.49

CALORIES PER POT: 192

The second of our Waitrose picks, I was starting to get sick of eating green-coloured soups already, despite yesterday's triumph. So I opted for the most classic combination of chicken and mushroom - so iconic, that Golden Wonder built the Pot Noodle empire on it as their default flavour. And we all know, if it's good enough for a Pot Noodle, it's good enough to go in this unkempt temple that is my body.

First up, let's address the elephant in the room. It looks like a fucking cow pat. I know that. You don't need to grimace at the photograph like that, it's not a bloody cow pat. Trust me, I ate the first few bites expecting some kind of bizarre, lawsuit-inducing Waitrose employee prank. Alas, it was not a cow pat in any sense - it was actually damned delicious.

Firstly, the best part is the super-savoury flavour; somewhere between a rich oxtail soup, a chicken broth, and a mushroom consomme. Only it had a lovely thick texture and lots - and I mean lots - of chicken and mushroom pieces. Overall, I did not expect such a hearty, tasty, filling soup (especially as this one had the least calories of those I'd tried thus far).

BEST FOR: PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO EAT FOOD THAT LOOKS THE SAME GOING IN AS IT DOES COMING OUT

DAY FOUR: THURSDAY
NAME: MARKS AND SPENCER COUNTRY VEGETABLE
PURCHASED FROM: MARKS AND SPENCER
PRICE: £1.99

CALORIES PER POT: 150

Ah, my favourite haunt for food shopping - Marks and Spencer. I was feeling up for something a bit more grounded. Rural. Rustic. As such, I found myself gravitating towards their Country Vegetable soup. And I'm pretty glad I did! This is as hearty and home-made as you can get without owning your own small, geriatric farmer's wife (which is a pain in the arse - they often die if you don't change the straw in their cage periodically).

This is a nice chunky soup, filled with potatoes, carrots, green beans and lentils, and reminded me a lot of the soup my grandparents used to make together. It was tasty, but predictable, but then again, it did exactly what I wanted it to - and that was to give me a comforting, tasty, chunky home-made-tasting soup to evoke nostalgic times. Well done, Marky Sparks.

BEST FOR: THOSE WHO LIVE IN A HOUSE, A VERY BIG HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY. BUT ARE LAZY AND RICH ENOUGH TO SHOP IN M&S CONSISTENTLY. IN THE COUNTRY

DAY FIVE: FRIDAY
NAME: YORKSHIRE PROVENDER SUMMER GARDEN WITH PANCETTA AND AVOCADO
PURCHASED FROM: SAINSBURYS
PRICE: £2.99

CALORIES PER POT: 204

To round off the week, I went for a brand I'd never even heard of before. They sounded pretty posh, so instantly I started to act up my council estate roots in it's presence. How could this soup know what it was like growing up on the streets?! Privately-educated prick. Anyway, it was the most expensive pot of soup of the week, and that was surprising considering Waitrose AND Marks and Spencer featured in the list.

But all gripes were vanquished soon after taking my first bite. This was very, very tasty. Admittedly it was a little thinner than the other soups, with a more brothy texture, but the taste made up for it. I'm not even a real fan of cheese, but this had a unique flavour to it that was one part pea soup, one part sharp hard cheese, and one part just-ripe avocado (you know, when they've still got that fresh bite to them?) - a mixture I never would have even considered to even be compatible, let alone be super-tasty like it was. A surprisingly tasty, yet infuriatingly posh, soup experience.

BEST FOR: PEOPLE THAT HAVE TWO SECOND-NAMES SEPARATED BY A HYPHEN AND HAVE A FAMILY SIGIL

For me, it was an interesting mixed bag filled with some utterly fantastic soups, some grotty stinkers, and many that surprised me in ways I didn't think soup could. I mean, I didn't know you could have sex with soup. But after this week, we're all learning things!

Thanks for your requests guys! Oh, and next time, please request more things that don't induce quite so much diarrhoea. UNTIL NEXT TIME, PEOPLE!

Muller Light Fruitopolis

2014-07-25T08:50:00.001-07:00

We Scots might choose to antagonize the coppers by calling them "Fruity Polis" now and again, and I'm sure this was Muller's motive for their new product line, "Fruitopolis". Of course, this is extremely confusing as one is an attempt to question a law enforcement's demeanour, and the other is a layered, fat-free fruit and yoghurt dessert. So what's that all about, Muller? Those two things aren't anything alike whatsoever, so why create a product centred around a completely irrelevant notion?

Seriously, lazy, lazy marketing people these days. Lazy.

Breaking my lucky streak of freebies, I actually had to buy this Muller Light Fruitopolis myself(I know, this world's all gone to hell). Costing 65p at Tesco, these appeared to only be sold singly - Muller often does this to test the water and see if our tiny human brains can handle the power of the multipack, so I wouldn't be surprised if a four-pack appears in the coming months on our shelves.

Described as "Thick, fat-free Greek-style yoghurt topped with a delicious fruity strawberry layer", this comes packaged in a transparent-sided pot so you can spend thirty minutes ogling that sexual layered action before opening it. I know I certainly did. It's adorned with all manner of angular Greek patterns, and if you happen to have accidentally consumed an inordinate amount of LSD (having mistaken them for those paper Beano faces you stick on top of those Smith's DIY Dennis the Menace cakes) you'd be forgiven for thinking you're looking at a majestic Greek patterned pantheon, a titanic, yoghurty collosseum. I know I certainly did.

From the top, it appeared to be nothing more than a big cup of jam, and considering I'd already eaten four cups of jam that morning, I was a little put-off by that. Put-off, and riddled with diabetes. As I completed some crosswords, I started to dig in. Sure enough, the fruit layer was the consistency of a thick strawberry jam with the occasional fruit chunk thrown in for texture. It tasted extremely sweet on it's own. Contrasting with that, however, was a delightfully tart Greek-style yoghurt that wasn't quite as bitter or acidic as, say, Fage's 0% Greek. In fact it was closer in taste to a natural fromage frais, albeit with a thicker texture.

The fruit and yoghurt layers complimented one another fantastically and gave the dessert a much richer, more filling consistency than it's humble 90 calories usually bestows upon the tastebuds. The only problem I found was the Dreaded Dairylea Dunker Dilemma - that most painful of situations where a symbiotic snack (a food made up of two mixable elements) requires both parts to be delicious, but the issue is that one part runs out far, far quicker than the other, leaving the remaining part merely good. In this case it was the fruit layer that disappeared way before the yoghurt, and though the yoghurt was good on it's own... well, everyone's experienced eating a KP Dip's biscuit sticks when you've run out of the chocolate, right? You know the pain of the Dreaded Dairylea Dunker Dilemma... I've got to say, this definitely kicks the backside out of the regular Muller Lights, and might actually be one of my favourite Muller products they've ever produced. It's definitely tasty, but requires a keen eye and some adept planning in order to properly ration the fruity layer. I understand that many of you don't enjoy having to write out an action plan to eat a snack, and that's YOUR problem, but these things are worth the trouble. They're awesome.

And if you enjoy Sonic the Hedgehog, you can sing the theme to "Metropolis Zone", replacing "Metropolis" for "Fruitopolis", and now you're singing the Fruitopolis Zone theme whilst eating a Fruitopolis.

I know I certainly did.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 4.5/5

Nestle Cini Minis

2014-07-10T05:03:00.001-07:00

Turns out I have more diverse readers on Toto Eats the World than I had anticipated - this week I received a rather cute little parcel from Liran... all the way from Israel! So thanks to you, Liran, I'm sure the postage cost you a lot of... er... rupees? Dinar? Shekel? Christ, I should know that. Well, it must've been expensive.

Inside, I found two Achva Sesame Halva bars, and two of these - Nestle Cini Minis! Now, please don't gut me where I stand, because I know this is going to sound like I've just skinned a kitten - but I actually don't care for halva all that much. I know to a lot of people I know that this is akin to being a fascist despot, but guess what? I don't like barbecue sauce either! Oh, I can SMELL the seething.

With that in mind, I turned my attention to these curious little morsels, the Cini Minis. Cini Minis. Cini...Minis. God, saying that is so satisfying. The glossy white bar was well-presented and colourful. Nice and vivid. Shiny. And on top of that, there were about five English words in total on the wrapper, so boy, was it mysterious. Seriously, this could contain all manner of revolting ingredients and I wouldn't be any the wiser - tripe, durian... barbecue sauce... it was an exciting, critical gamble on my part. But as the name was "Cini Minis", I assumed cinnamon. Would assumption be my downfall? Assumption. Assumption. Hey, that sounds cool, too!

This was a little bastard to get open. You know when something's so sticky that the wrapper actually wrecks the product inside, trying to remove it? Well, that's the case here. And yes, I could easily make a sexual joke about "a long object being so sticky that whatever's stuck to it wrecks it when peeled off", but that's just not on today. We're doing food reviews here, you fucking deviant.

The underside of the bar was a grotesque shape, but thankfully it's not a beauty contest - this is an taste contest. Review.

The coating smelled similarly to the "milk-flavoured" sweet icing found on something like a Pop Tart or Rice Krispies cereal bar, which was definitely welcomed. "Sit beside me and have a beer, mate!" I said to the sweet icing. It did nothing.

Wow! The other side though - what a cool-looking bar! It was a mixture of Cinnamon Grahams-like pieces, honey and little rice pebbles smooshed together in a cacophany of sugary grain. It really did have an intense smell of cinnamon and vanilla, and I wasn't at all saddened by that, no-siree-Jim!

My first bite into it, and the underside melted away quickly - a sugary-sweet milky flavour not unlike ice cream. The cereal part was far chewier than I thought - it seemed to be bound by a kind of caramel, but the overriding flavour was that of cinnamon and toasted rice, and it was awesome. It also seemed to have the aftertaste of candied ginger and corn pops, and it reminded me of something else entirely. I couldn't pin the taste until I put two and two together. Nestle... Cinnamon... Golden...aha! After I googled it - this bar is made of the Israeli version of both Cinnamon and Golden Grahams!

Cinnamon Grahams (no, I'm never calling them "Curiously Cinnamon" or whatever shite they're called now) are delicious, but adding Golden Grahams into the mix too is almost too cruel. And it really is, believe it or not - even better than the sum of it's parts. This is simply put, one of the nicest cereal bars I've ever eaten, and it seems it's fairly virtuous too, at 105 calories a bar. Israel really plays it's A-game when it comes to cereal bars, and I'd be more than happy to eat one of these with a hot (He)brew. ZING!

I have to extend my thanks to Liran again for sending me these to try, and if anyone else wants to send me free things (and not just stuff to review, I'm more than happy receiving pugs or Xbox games), just get in touch!

Keep it IsREAL, fine readers!

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 5/5

Golden Wonder Powerful Prawns, Chunky Cheesies and Super Sticks

2014-06-21T06:21:00.001-07:00

It might completely shock you all to hear this, but I wasn't always this sophisticated and refined. I grew up in on a council estate in a second-floor flat, the verdant, soggy moss of the veranda kissing my feet as I walked out to welcome the morning overcast and gentle squawks of passing mothers yelling "get aff that road or I'll thump ye black an' blue!".

Yet, it's nowhere near as dreary as it might sound. We never had any money growing up, but (dry-heave-twee-gasm alert), we were rich in love and attention, and I was always a happy wee lump who never went wanting. In some ways, not having a great deal of money really helped me appreciate the smaller things a lot more; fish fingers for tea was an exciting prospect, not some kind of budget fallback.

So, then - to the task at hand - cheap crisps. Or rather, cheap potato and corn snacks - little bags of savoury morsels that cost just the right amount for kids in my position. Space Raiders, Puffs, Snaps and Jonny's Onion Rings were all the 20p-or-less staples of crisp lovers, and the 80s and 90s were completely dominated by two big manufacturers - Smiths and Golden Wonder. When big man Walkers (or Lays, to my Americousins) steamrolled in, they bought out Smiths (and subsequently all Smiths brands like Wotsits, Monster Munch and Salt n' Shake), leaving Golden Wonder bruised and battered. Now, Golden Wonder survives almost solely on sales made in the lower echelons of the crisp underworld, hawking budget snacks in the bowels of the ghetto.

And thanks to a generous voucher I got from Golden Wonder themselves, I get to review them! Nostalgia Yaldy!

In the almighty box of savoury Golden Wonder goodies, there were three separate varieties - Powerful Prawns, Super Sticks and Chunky Cheesies - when sold alone, these little bags retail for a Scot-pleasing 15p and each bag is approximately 65 calories (say whaaa? less than a small apple? For crisps? Beast!).

First up, the Powerful Prawns. In their garish pink bag, you may fear they question your masculinity, but fret not - the mascot appears to be a Pistol Shrimp, a crustacean capable of firing sonic blasts from it's claw to destroy it's prey. Golden Wonder clearly wants to appeal to the shocking pink/violent sealife demographic, which thankfully, are my two favourite things in the universe. These corn puffs were unsurprisingly, prawn flavour, and in the 13 gram, 65 calorie bag, I counted eighteen delightfully prawnious pieces.

The taste was definitely more a prawn cocktail; salty prawn with a sweet tomato-like hint found in most other prawn cocktail varieties. What I did find here, though, is that the prawn flavour really didn't shy away; it was in the foreground. This is definitely hardcore prawnography, and it gets away with the "powerful" moniker. These were thoroughly enjoyed and despite the small bag size, the strong flavour meant I was pretty satisfied by the end of the portion. Nice job, Pee-prawns!

Next up were the Super Sticks. These had by far the shittiest name of the three. "Super Sticks"?! I was almost insulted by how incredibly uninspired the name was. I mean, like, the mascot for these is a beaver, right, so why not call these... "Salty Beaver-Rods"?

Actually, wait... no. Really, REALLY not that.

This little 13 gram bag was the lowest in calories at 62 and I was pretty surprised by the almost-luminous hue that emanated from the bag when I opened them up. These "unbelievably strong salt and vinegar corn snacks" looked like they were going to be insanely greasy, but they weren't at all. In fact, they were pretty deceptive; when I tried to pick a couple up, they shattered and splintered all over the place not unlike if a gorilla tried picking up individual Weetabix.

Thankfully their "unbelievable" flavour didn't disappoint, however. Being messy-as-fuck aside, these had what all salt and vinegar-lovers crave - lip-nip. Now, that's not some kind of boobular foreplay, that's when the vinegar is strong enough to burn your lips and the salt gets in there to irritate the bastards something fierce. It's a masochistic glee that isn't for everyone, but this blogger is self-deprecating in all the right ways.

Finally, we come to the Chunky Cheesies. With a grotesque muscular mouse as it's mascot, this evoked memories of Mighty Mouse, only if he'd been drawn by an deviantart furry. The bright orange bag definitely didn't attempt to curveball the consumer - cheese is, indeed, orange (not fucking blue, Walkers. Fuck's sake. I mean, if it was Stilton crisps, fine, but... just... just fuck's sake). This 14 gram bag came in at 66 calories.

Now, I'm no stranger to crispy, cheesy baws. Cough. They're not necessarily my favourite flavour of crisps or snacks, but they're not arse-tier in crisp flavours (see: Lime Doritos, Walkers Chilli and Chocolate), far from it, but I'm not a fanny-cheese. I mean, fan-of-cheese (Christ guys, sorry, my mind was elsewhere there). These had the most bountiful-seeming portion, despite being a singular gram and calorie more than the Powerful Prawns, and though they had a similar shape, these were also slightly bigger.

From the moment I picked one up and I got coated in cheese-dust I knew these were going to be Wotsits-style cheesy (strong) as opposed to Quavers-style cheesy (air-flavoured). And so they were! In fact, these were so rich and powerful in their cheese flavour that I'd put these on par with other brutish tongue-punchers of the cheesy-crisp world such as McCoys or Kettle Chips - so much so that they were too rich for me to finish. That's a preference thing though - like I said, it's not my favourite flavour. But to unsubtle cheesy-chasers, these would definitely be a good shout!

I have to say, I'm not too sure if nostalgia-goggles played a significant part in my overall feelings about Golden Wonder's snacks here. For one, though I'm still about ten years old mentally anyway, whilst trying these out I most certainly got pangs of playing with my He-Man figures and chasing after my friends pretending to be Shredder whilst dashing to the shop with a pocketful of coppers. Which incidentally, I still do, but that's really beside the point once again. The Powerful Prawns are excellent prawn-flavoured snacks - perhaps some of the best I've ever had - and the Super Sticks, awful name and weird, messy texture aside, had a pleasant, strong, nippy taste. Only the Chunky Cheesies weren't to my taste, but they were as garish and unsubtle as the others in all the right ways, leading me to think it might just be a personal taste thing. These snacks are just the right size, price, and a low-calorie savoury snack addition to any kid's... or adult's... Ghostbusters lunchbox.

Now that I'm an adult I can appreciate the finer things to eat - freshly-cut sashimi, asparagus hollandaise... not-supermarket-brand cherryade - but as refined as your palate might get, Golden Wonder has convinced me... there's always time to put a bold, garish Salty Beaver Rod in your mouth.

TOTO'S TASTY RATINGS:

GOLDEN WONDER POWERFUL PRAWNS: 4.5/5

GOLDEN WONDER SUPER STICKS: 4/5

GOLDEN WONDER CHUNKY CHEESIES: 2.5/5

Metcalfe's Skinny Corncakes with Dark Chocolate

2014-05-31T06:58:00.000-07:00

When I fancy a sweetie, something to satisfy a sugar craving, rarely do I think, "man, I need me some maize." Yet, clearly Metcalfe, that connoisseur of corn, figured he'd break that train of thought and start offering sweet ...corn... confectionery. "Sweetcorn". Hey, that's a catchy name. I wonder why he never used that.

Anyway, Metcalfe's was clearly touched by my positive review of their Wasabi Skinny Topcorn reviewed a couple of years ago (Check the archives, I'm not going to post a link like some kind of pro, lazy bastards), because they sent me vouchers for both their new "grab bags" of Skinny Corncakes with Dark Chocolate, and Skinny Corncakes with Milk Chocolate to review. Alas,my local Sainsbury's supermarket only had the dark chocolate variant, so I obviously I had an in-store tirade and swore at all of the staff, calling one "what happens when you hold in a shit too long and it gains sentience", before leaving with only half of my intended quarry in hand.

At a normal RRP of £1.25, this isn't a budget snack by means of cost, but conversely, at 118 calories for the entire bag it arguably makes up for it in terms of diet-friendliness. The packaging was oddly very appealing to me, perhaps because the stylised motif stamped across the majority of the bag had the gentle reminiscence of a European brothel.

The tagline "The Lighter, Snappier, Skinnier Snack!" seemed by-the-books enough, but I couldn't get over the image of a small sprouting dandelion coming from the "i" in "skinny". Or was it a ball, rebounding off the surface of the letter? I couldn't tell. Needless to say, it made me question whether or not there was a connection to garden nuisances or increased elasticity with these snacks. Well, I didn't, because I'm not thick as mince, but I needed to fill this section with a tepid joke.

The bag may have looked nice, but it was a total bastard to open. After a few words that resemble "pfruck", I penetrated the foil barrier and revealed the... corntents.

And to be honest, I didn't do the dinosaur or the funky chicken. It looked a tad underwhelming at first - an admittedly decent amount of corncakes with the most sporadic, natty distribution of dark chocolate I'd ever seen. Though, as the label reminded me, it was "uncompromisingly good Italian chocolate", which reassured me that, if nothing else, it was at least exotic and above-average quality, which is something that can't also be said about my overall sex life.

Did I mention that these were ridiculously erratic in terms of consistency? Some had a great, thick coating of dark chocolate, whilst some look like they were suffering from a disturbing case of choco-mange.

Thankfully, this was a product that was keen to surprise me. At first, I munched one of the Jaffa Cake-sized corncakes and thought it tasted like a regular old rice cake, with perhaps more of a crunchy, snappy texture. But then, I got a light hit of salt, a malty taste (which I can only equate to eating cornflakes straight from the box, albeit with a little bit of a sugary-sweet hit), and then the chocolate came to the party.

Oh, man, the chocolate. It was subtle at first, but POW! - being dark chocolate, it crept up on me and sat resonating on my palate for a long while, with just enough milkiness and bitterness to sit somewhere between traditional dark and milk chocolate. It was great. As soon as I'd had one, I didn't instantly grab and load my facial food-destruction-chasm with another corncake, though I definitely wanted another. I sat and savoured the flavour to the very end, and then had a rummage around the mangled bag for another one.

I found it was addictive to let one melt on my tongue, chocolate-side down; by the time it had dissolved, the corncake itself turned into an awesome dollop which tasted exactly like chocolate cornflakes.

And there were LOADS of them!

I was really, really amazed to see how many you got in a single 118-calorie bag (to help you judge what that equates to, it's comparable with a Cadbury Fudge or Chomp). The above picture shows there was more than enough to help me get through two consecutive evening cups of tea with a few left to spare. After they were all done, even though I was wholly satisfied, I felt so overwhelmingly positive about these that I wanted to Google where Metcalfe lived, just so I could buy a flight there, creep into the Metcalfe family house, and give him/her a mid-sleep food massage before disappearing at the first sign of the waking sun.

...

What? I did it at YOUR house last night, and YOU seemed to enjoy it.

Though the price of these will definitely stop them from being a Toto staple (not to mention the sentient faecal ineptitude of smelly poopoo no-milk-chocolate Sainsburys), these WILL be purchased again. I wholeheartedly recommend them.

They're a-maize-ing.

What?! Too... corny?

I'm sorry, I should really crop out my jokes. If I reap this up, I might not be able to talk the ear off you in future reviews.

I swear. I won't do it agrain.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 5/5

Bakehill Jungle Cereal Variety

2014-05-20T01:24:00.001-07:00

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. In 2013, it's believed that over 3,000 fatalities occurred as a result of people skipping breakfast, according to absolutely nobody.

So it's important you start the day right, and what better way than to eat a bunch of sugary, low-protein pseudo-confectionery?

Now, I'm a fan of kiddy cereals, because let's face it - Chocogasm Sugar Blasts are far more exciting than Own Brand Bland Bran. I've been an avid buyer of Kellogg's Variety, a multipack of single-serving cereals (that were among my very first reviews back in the day - see as an example), so when I was presented with this Bakehill Jungle Cereal Variety as a far cheaper alternative - eight individual cereal portions for £1 instead of the Kellogg's Variety with an RRP of £2.09 - I was certainly willing to give it a try.

Firstly, let's address the very literal elephant in the room.

Well, not just the elephant, but all of these mascots here. Christ knows who designed these guys, but... well, it's the eyes. It's those fucking eyes. If they're not soulless husk-puppets, they're definitely incredibly stoned, as they gaze out at me with what seems like the most intense nothingness I've ever witnessed.

Secondly, I'm utterly vexed at how completely arbitrary the animals are as mascots, how they relate to their respective cereals, or indeed what their motivations are. For example, the zebra character is rapt by the "Alpha Bites". Now, I tried to justify this by saying "Oh, they're saying alphabet, a-z, so this is clearly the Alphabite Zebra, right?" - perhaps I was finding meaning where there was none. Perhaps it's just fucking pointless.

I was a little confused to open the box and find eight foil bags, as pictured above. I don't mind saving on packaging, so I wasn't offended or anything, but this has to be the most half-arsed attempt at anything since my final college presentation. Even the names of the cereal seemed to be printed at random; I know it's just one long foil strip that gets punched periodically on a production line, but Jesus Christ, at least line up the names.

First up, Sweet Flakes (the marketing department not so much "phoning it in" but rather "taking the piss" with the naming effort here).

To many of you, this will be what you assume is the Bakehill equivalent of Kellogg's Frosties (Frosted Flakes to you Yankee-Doodle-Readers). But this assumption is wrong.

These are weird; not so much in taste, but more in consistency. Unlike a flake of corn, these seemed to be puffed flakes with a more... "fluffy" texture to them, resulting in an almost Monster Munch-esque crumble in the mouth. Actually, now that I think about it, they're like a softer Special K-like mouthfeel. It was odd, but not entirely bad - just difficult to fathom all the weird oral abracadabras that were occurring. Think of these as a weird amalgamation of Frosties, Special K and Monster Munch, but with the taste of sugary corn. Yes, as fucked up as it sounds.

Next up, the Choco Balls.

Now, the popular joke about Nestle Nesquik Cereal is that they're clearly shaped like rabbit faeces, and the mascot is a rabbit, therefore you are eating rabbit faeces for breakfast. If this is the common thread, then the elephant mascot for Choco Balls is experiencing some truly epic constipation, perhaps even an impacted bowel, to produce waste matter of such tiny stature. Feel sorry for this elephant, his digestive system has failed him. Let's hope that it wasn't the cereal that constipated him in the first place, partially because I'm about to taste it, and because that would imply he eats his own tiny shits for breakfast.

These little balls of corn and wheat are dusted with a chocolate powder that just got everywhere. Immersing these in milk resulted in the milk not only going chocolatey, but in fact turning into some kind of choco-tar of the darkest night.

Believe it or not, I actually preferred the taste of these to Nestle's Nesquik; the taste was more rich like a dark chocolate, and a little less saccharin-sweet than those. The more cocoa-heavy flavour meant I felt far more satisfied by a portion of these than I did with the big-brand alternative.

The third variety arrived within my mucky paws; the Fruit Rings.

These were clearly emulating Kellogg's Froot Loops. One thing that really pissed me off is that the mascot chosen for the supposed fruit-flavoured cereal was one of nature's most famed devout carnivores. I mean, I know that Keith Karl Kellogg chose a toucan for HIS mascot, and toucans are mostly insectivores, but they ARE frugivores (fruit-eaters) in early stages of life. What the fuck is going on any more, Bakehill, at least consider biological connotations.

After downing a double whisky and pacing around for half an hour my rage subsided and I returned to the review.

Now, I must admit, I've never been mental for Froot Loops (you can view the truly archaically-reviewed UK version here: ), as I find the fruit taste to just taste like... if someone described "generic tutti frutti" to a man with no sense of taste, and asked him to emulate it in cereal form.

And you know what? I'm still not sold. This at least tasted a bit like pears and grapes if I squinted my ...er... tongue, but overall it was just a vague fake fruit taste with a sharp sweetness to punctuate it.

Interesting side fact: All colours of Froot Loops and similar "fruit-flavoured" cereals have the exact same flavour. STOAP SAYIN' YE LIKE THE GREEN ONES BEST, YE WEE LIAR.

Finally, we have the Alpha Bites. Please note the above picture does not have a tiny penis poking in from the top, that's my thumb. For pictures of my actual penis, please email me.

I suppose these are the only variety in the pack that isn't trying to ape something already on the market, and I commend them for attempting originality even in a limited capacity.

These were "sweetened corn letters", but sadly, most of the letters weren't actual characters. I'm hazarding a guess at them having splintered during production, and not that Bakehill doesn't know the Cyrillic alphabet. I found several commas and full-stops in the bag, and what appeared like half an ampersand.

I was appalled at how explicit this cereal was though, as I managed to spell out "fucktwat" with the provided characters.

Though certainly only suitable for adults in that respect, the taste was a little harder to pin down. Once again, these had the same weird "kinda like Monster Munch fluffy-crumbly" instead of crunchy in texture, but they had an almost vanilla sugar-flavoured coating to them. The vanilla-like taste kept getting stronger as I got further through them, but after checking the ingredients it certainly must've been my imagination - this is a vanilla-less cereal.

Vanillaless. Vanillaless. Yeah, that IS tough to say ten times quickly in succession.

Overall, it was actually my second-favourite of the bunch; partially because it was completely unique, and partially for the swearwords.

SO, TO THE VERDICT. Is the Bakehill Jungle Cereal Variety worth it? Well, in a word - yes. It's a mixed bag of goods, decents and completely weird, but there's nothing in here that gave me the dry heave. In fact, if you're not completely neurotic about animal mascot relevance, there shouldn't be many negatives to shout about - as long as you view these as unique products.

The problem, of course, arises when you consider them in comparison to their big-brand counterparts. For example, if you're accustomed to Kellogg's or Nestle equivalents and adore that specific taste, then you're not going to get the same as that, only cheaper. You're going to get something vaguely resembling the original. But like going to a gig to see a lesser-known group cover some songs you already love, you might end up actually preferring their versions, and their other songs might be pretty good too.

In my opinion, I'll probably buy these again. For the equivalent of 12p a portion, these are worth a try. Like me, you might find one or two you actually prefer to the big-brand; The Choco Balls were the stand-out example, and the Alpha Bites are a very decent unique little variety all to themselves. Despite the oddness of the Sweet Flakes I munched through them quite happily, and though the Fruit Rings weren't my thing, I reckon if you enjoy the branded version you might be able to more accurately judge them.

Please leave a comment below if your fruit-torus breakfast cereal experience proves or defies the rule!

Wait a minute, half these fuckers don't even live in the jungle. Oh, for fuck's sake.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 3.5/5 DreamHost reviews

Muller Light Skinny Cappuccino

2014-05-08T02:23:00.001-07:00

The nice people at The Fine Food Corps, a new marketing group here in the UK, were eager to send me some of the most recent brand new food items currently being trickled out into the supermarkets over the next few months. Amongst these items, a few particular items stood out - with this in particular being the jewel in the crown of curiosity.

I'm quite a fan of Muller Light yoghurts. They tend to get certain flavours pretty spot-on (see: Banana Custard flavour), with even the less successful flavours (such as Turkish Delight flavour) ending up "just decent". When your range extends from decent to pretty good, that's a gamut to be proud of when a hypercritical Scot is doing the reviewing. So this brand new flavour, "Skinny Cappuccino", was already being accepted by me as "probably okay, perhaps even AWRIGHT!", and I delved right in.

Described by the accompanying documentation as "Due for supermarket release this May, with an RRP of 69p", this Muller Light is a coffee-flavoured yoghurt with dark chocolate sprinkles, setting the waist-conscious back a meagre 94 calories in total. That's a crapton less than your shitty Starbucks Triple-Choco-Latte-Cara-Frappe-Pretentiosos.

I'll start the review by saying that I'm not a devout coffee-drinker. I'm more a tea man (which is incidentally one of my several incredibly-uncool aliases), but I'm not against coffee in a confection-centric world. I'm under the impression, however, that this simply means I love chocolate regardless of how it's flavoured, as opposed to "I like coffee with chocolate".

This is funny as it reminds me of an anecdote about my dad where he remarked: "It's funny, I hate cauliflower, but love cauliflower cheese", to which my sister responded, "That just means you REALLY love cheese sauce."

I'm just running parallels here, I'm not saying a Cauliflower Muller Light would be nice. Though I've got enough of a megalomaniacal streak to enjoy the thought of my blog influencing a higher-up over in a Muller boardroom to green-light a gross foot-smelling vegetable yoghurt. So, Franz Heinz von Bratwurst of Muller Ltd, please make an Artichoke Heart Muller Light.

The presentation is excellent here. Though it uses the Muller Light template, the entire upper foil is fashioned to appear like a frothy, milky coffee with chocolate dusting forming the lettering. It also notes that this flavour happens to be "voted by you!" which I'm assuming means you, not me,, because I didn't vote for the sod. There's a million flavours I would've picked first. I mean, I voted for the artichoke heart one.

I'm going to assume there was some kind of public vote-in deal, but I was totally oblivious to it. Clearly, the pretentious pseudo-coffee aficionados and lovers of calorie-conscious yoghurts have heavily intersecting communities, and I was beyond the extremities of said venn diagram. But hey, I'm still game! Some of my favourite things were products outside of my usual interests (see: Ann Summers back room).

A wonderful, speckled ocean of beige appeared as I peeled back the label. It was surprisingly a little lighter than I had initially assumed it'd be. It smelled only vaguely of coffee, but most predominantly a milky, creamy scent (a little like a weak coffee liqueur does).

And like a pillock, I actually blew on the top of it as I raised it to my nose. Eejit.

As I took my first spoonful, I noticed the consistency was definitely a little thinner than some other Muller Light yoghurts; if you've tried the "Vanilla with Dark Chocolate Sprinkles" variant you'll know what I mean, as this is almost exactly the same as that one. If you haven't tried that, then ignore that last part, as it'll make no sense to you and simply add more confusing things to think about.

The flavour was... well, it was actually pretty decent, to be honest. But the one thing I couldn't shake was that this was a very, very subtle coffee flavour. Definitely sweet, and certainly that gentle, tart, almost Greek-style yoghurt pang remained (as you get with all Muller lights), but the coffee was certainly a nice cuddle as opposed to a slap in the face. This won't wake you up in the morning - it's not that kind of coffee.

The chocolate flecks were pretty much nothing for the texture, and though they were very small and dispersed pretty sparsely, they still added a nice cocoa sweetness to the taste. For something so tiny and seemingly inconsequential,they did add something fairly meaningful to the deal. Like the Boba Fett of the Muller Light.

I finished this yoghurt happily. Not with gusto, not with ravenous raging rabies, not with aplomb or even multiple plombs. It was tasty, and it did the trick. But it was little more than "good", and certainly didn't give me the Costa Vampire lust for roasted bean juice in the future.

As a non-regular coffee chap, I feel I can't adequately convey whether or not this will satisfy the hunger for drug-laden beverage in yoghurt form, but what I can definitely say is - if you're in the camp of people, as I am, that does not shirk and grimace when you get the coffee one in a bag of Revels, then you might find some pleasance in the Skinny Cappuccino Muller Light.

Let's put it this way, it's no motherfucking Artichoke Heart Muller Light.

TOTO'S TASTY RATING: 3/5